Frankford. Her lute! O God! upon this instrument Her fingers have run quick division, Sweeter than that which now divides our hearts. These frets have made me pleasant, that have now Frets of my heart-strings made. O Master Cranwell, Oft hath she made this melancholy wood, Now mute and dumb for her disastrous chance, Speak sweetly many a note, sound many a strain To her own ravishing voice, which being well strung, What pleasant strange airs have they jointly rung! Post with it after her. Now nothing’s left; Of her and hers, I am at once bereft. Nicholas. I’ll ride and overtake her; do my message, And come back again. [_Exit_. Cranwell. Mean time, sir, if you please, I’ll to Sir Francis Acton, and inform him Of what hath passed betwixt you and his sister. Frankford. Do as you please. How ill am I bested, To be a widower ere my wife be dead! [_Exeunt_. SCENE III.--_A Country Road_. _Enter_ Mistress Frankford, _with_ Jenkin, Cicely, _a_ Coachman, _and three_ Carters. Mistress Frankford. Bid my coach stay: why should I ride in state, Being hurled so low down by the hand of fate? A seat like to my fortunes let me have; Earth for my chair, and for my bed a grave. Jenkin. Comfort, good mistress; you have watered your coach with tears already: you have but two mile now to go to your manor. A man cannot say by my old master Frankford as he may say by me, that he wants manors;[1.45] for he hath three or four, of which this is one that we are going to now. Cicely. Good mistress, be of good cheer; sorrow, you see, hurts you, but helps you not: we all mourn to see you so sad. Carter. Mistress, I spy one of my landlord’s men Come riding post: ’tis like he brings some news. Mistress Frankford. Comes he from Master Frankford, he is welcome; So are his news because they come from him. _Enter_ Nicholas. Nicholas. [_Presenting lute_.] There. Mistress Frankford. I know the lute; oft have I sung to thee: We both are out of tune, both out of time. Nicholas. Would that had been the worst instrument that e’er you played on. My master commends him to ye; there’s all he can find that was ever yours: he hath nothing left that ever you could lay claim to but his own heart, and he could afford you that. All that I have to deliver you is this: he prays you to forget him, and so he bids you farewell. Mistress Frankford. I thank him: he is kind, and ever was. All you that have true feeling of my grief, That know my loss, and have relenting hearts, Gird me about, and help me with your tears To wash my spotted sins: my lute shall groan; It cannot weep, but shall lament my moan. _Enter_ Wendoll.