_Mos._ How now, Alice, what sad and passionate? Make me partaker of thy pensiveness; Fire divided burns with lesser force. _Al._ But I will dam that fire in my breast, Till by the force thereof my part consume. Ah Mosbie! _Mos._ Such deep pathaires, like to a cannon’s burst, Discharged against a ruinated wall, Breaks my relenting heart in thousand pieces. Ungentle Alice, thy sorrow is my sore; Thou know’st it will, and ’tis thy policy To forge distressful looks, to wound a breast Where lies a heart which dies when thou art sad. It is not Love that loves to anger Love. _Al._ It is not Love that loves to murther Love. _Mos._ How mean you that? _Al._ Thou know’st how dearly Arden loved me. _Mos._ And then---- _Al._ And then--conceal the rest, for ’tis too bad, Lest that my words be carried to the wind, And publish’d in the world to both our shames. I pray thee, Mosbie, let our springtime wither; Our harvest else will yield but loathsome weeds. Forget, I pray thee, what has past betwixt us; For now I blush and tremble at the thoughts. _Mos._ What, are you changed? _Al._ Aye, to my former happy life again; From title of an odious strumpet’s name To honest Arden’s wife, not Arden’s honest wife-- Ha Mosbie! ’tis thou hast rifled me of that, And made me slanderous to all my kin. Even in my forehead is thy name engraven, A mean Artificer, that low-born name! I was bewitcht; woe-worth the hapless hour And all the causes that enchanted me. _Mos._ Nay, if thou ban, let me breathe curses forth; And if you stand so nicely at your fame, Let me repent the credit I have lost. I have neglected matters of import, That would have ’stated me above thy state; For-slow’d advantages, and spurn’d at time; Aye, Fortune’s right hand Mosbie hath forsook, To take a wanton giglot by the left. I left the marriage of an honest maid, Whose dowry would have weigh’d down all thy wealth; Whose beauty and demeanour far exceeded thee. This certain good I lost for changing bad, And wrapt my credit in thy company. I was bewitcht; that is no theme of thine; And thou unhallow’d hast enchanted me. But I will break thy spells and exorcisms, And put another sight upon these eyes, That shew’d my heart a raven for a dove. Thou art not fair; I view’d thee not till now: Thou art not kind; till now I knew thee not: And now the rain hath beaten off thy gilt, Thy worthless copper shews thee counterfeit. It grieves me not to see how foul thou art, But mads me that ever I thought thee fair. Go, get thee gone, a copesmate for thy hinds; I am too good to be thy favourite. _Al._ Aye, now I see, and too soon find it true, Which often hath been told me by my friends, That Mosbie loves me not but for my wealth;