+R. Royster.+ But for wowyng thou knowest women are shamefast. But and she knewe my minde, I knowe she would be glad, And thinke it the best chaunce that euer she had. +M. Mery.+ Too hir then like a man, and be bolde forth to starte, Wowers neuer speede well, that haue a false harte. +R. Royster.+ What may I best doe? +M. Mery.+ Sir remaine ye a while, Ere long one or other of hir house will appere. Ye knowe my minde. +R. Royster.+ Yea now hardly lette me alone. +M. Mery.+ In the meane time sir, if you please, I wyll home, And call your Musitians, for in this your case It would sette you forth, and all your wowyng grace, Ye may not lacke your instrumentes to play and sing. +R. Royster.+ Thou knowest I can doe that. +M. Mery.+ As well as any thing. Shall I go call your folkes, that ye may shewe a cast? +R. Royster.+ Yea runne I beseeche thee in all possible haste. +M. Mery.+ I goe. _Exeat._ +R. Royster.+ Yea for I loue singyng out of measure, It comforteth my spirites and doth me great pleasure. But who commeth forth yond from my swete hearte Custance? My matter frameth well, thys is a luckie chaunce. Actus. j. Scæna. iij. +Mage Mumble crust+, _spinning on the distaffe_. +Tibet Talk apace+, _sowyng_. +Annot Alyface+ _knittyng_. +R. Roister.+ +M. Mumbl.+ If thys distaffe were spoonne Margerie Mumblecrust. +Tib Talk.+ Where good stale ale is will drinke no water I trust. +M. Mumbl.+ Dame Custance hath promised vs good ale and white bread. +Tib Talk.+ If she kepe not promise, I will beshrewe her head: But it will be starke nyght before I shall haue done. +R. Royster.+ I will stande here a while, and talke with them anon, I heare them speake of Custance, which doth my heart good, To heare hir name spoken doth euen comfort my blood. +M. Mumbl.+ Sit downe to your worke Tibet like a good girle. +Tib. Talk.+ Nourse medle you with your spyndle and your whirle, No haste but good, Madge Mumblecrust, for whip and whurre The olde prouerbe doth say, neuer made good furre. +M. Mumbl.+ Well, ye wyll sitte downe to your worke anon, I trust. +Tib. Talk.+ Soft fire maketh sweete malte, good Madge Mumblecrust. +M. Mumbl.+ And sweete malte maketh ioly good ale for the nones. +Tib. Talk.+ Whiche will slide downe the lane without any bones. _Cantet._ Olde browne bread crustes must haue much good mumblyng, But good ale downe your throte hath good easie tumbling. +R. Royster.+ The iolyest wenche that ere I hearde, little mouse, May I not reioyce that she shall dwell in my house? +Tib. Talk.+ So sirrha, nowe this geare beginneth for to frame. +M. Mumbl.+ Thanks to God, though your work stand stil, your tong is not lame +Tib. Talk.+ And though your teeth be gone, both so sharpe and so fine Yet your tongue can renne on patins as well as mine. +M. Mumbl.+ Ye were not for nought named Tyb Talke apace. +Tib. Talk.+ Doth my talke grieue you? Alack, God saue your grace.