_K. of S._ So let them tryumph that haue cause to ioy, But wretched King, thy nuptiall knot is death: Thy Bride the breeder of thy Countries ill, For thy false heart dissenting from thy hand, 200 Misled by loue, hast made another choyce, Another choyce, euen when thou vowdst thy soule To _Dorithea_, Englands choyseff pride, O then thy wandring eyes bewitcht thy heart, Euen in the Chappell did thy fancie change, When periur’d man, though faire _Doll_ had thy hand, The Scottish _Idaes_ bewtie stale thy heart: Yet feare and loue hath tyde thy readie tongue From blabbing forth the passions of thy minde, Lest fearefull silence haue in suttle lookes 210 Bewrayd the treason of my new vowd loue, Be faire and louely _Doll_, but here’s the prize That lodgeth here, and entred through mine eyes, Yet how so ere I loue, I must be wise. Now louely Countesse, what reward or grace, May I imploy on you for this your zeale, And humble honors done vs in our Court, In entertainment of the English King. _Countesse._ It was of dutie Prince that I haue done: And what in fauour may content me most, 220 Is, that it please your grace to giue me leaue, For to returne vnto my Countrey home. _K. of Scots._ But louely _Ida_ is your mind the same? _Ida._ I count of Court my Lord, as wise men do, Tis fit for those that knowes what longs thereto: Each person to his place, the wise to Art, The Cobler to his clout, the Swaine to Cart. _K. of Sc._ But _Ida_ you are faire, and bewtie shines, And seemeth best, where pomp her pride refines. _Ida._ If bewtie (as I know there’s none in me) 230 Were sworne my loue, and I his life should be: The farther from the Court I were remoued, The more I thinke of heauen I were beloued. _K. of Scots._ And why? _Ida._ Because the Court is counted _Venus_ net, Where gifts and vowes for stales are often set, None, be she chaste as _Vesta_, but shall meete A curious toong to charme her eares with sweet. _K. of Scots._ Why _Ida_ then I see you set at naught, The force of loue. 240 _Ida._ In sooth this is my thoght most gratious king, That they that little proue Are mickle blest, from bitter sweets of loue: And weele I wot, I heard a shepheard sing, That like a Bee, Loue hath a little sting: He lurkes in flowres, he pearcheth on the trees, He on Kings pillowes, bends his prettie knees: The Boy is blinde, but when he will not spie, He hath a leaden foote, and wings to flie: Beshrow me yet, for all these strange effects, 250 If I would like the Lad, that so infects. _K. of Scots._ Rare wit, fair face, what hart could more desire? But _Doll_ is faire, and doth concerne thee neere. Let _Doll_ be faire, she is wonne, but I must woe, And win faire _Ida_, theres some choyce in two. But _Ida_ thou art coy. _Ida._ And why dread King?