Ser.

^{6 note}Master, there are three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds, and three swine-herds, that have made themselves all men of hair,^{7 note}

Saltiers: and they have a dance, which the wenches say is a gallymaufry of gambols, because they are not in't: but they themselves are o'th' mind, if it be not too rough for some, that know little but bowling,* ^note it will please plentifully.

Shep.

Away! we'll none on't; here has been too much homely foolery already. I know, Sir, we weary you.

Pol.

You weary those, that refresh us. Pray, let's see these four-threes of herdsmen.

Ser.

One three of them, by their own report, Sir, hath danc'd before the King; and not the worst of the three but jumps twelve foot and a half by th' square.

Shep.

Leave your prating; since these good men are pleas'd, let them come in; but quickly now.

Pol. [aside.]
O, father, you'll know more of that hereafter.^{8 note}
Is it not too far gone? 'tis time to part them.
He's simple, and tells much.—How now, fair shepherd?
Your heart is full of something, that doth take
Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young,

And handed love, as you do, I was wont
To load my she with knacks; I would have ransack'd
The pedler's silken treasury, and have pour'd it
To her acceptance; you have let him go,
And nothing marted with him. If your lass
Interpretation should abuse, and call this
Your lack of love or bounty; you were straited
For a reply, at least, if you make care
Of happy holding her.

Flo.
Old Sir, I know,
She prizes not such trifles as these are;
The gifts, she looks from me, are packt and lockt
Up in my heart, which I have given already,
But not deliver'd. O, hear me breathe my love
Before this ancient Sir, who, it should seem,
Hath sometime lov'd. I take thy hand, this hand,
As soft as dove's down, and as white as it,
Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow
That's bolted by the northern blast twice o'er.

Pol.
What follows this?
How prettily the young swain seems to wash
The hand, was fair before!—I've put you out—
But, to your protestation: let me hear
What you profess.

Flo.
Do, and be witness to't.

Pol.
And this my neighbour too?

Flo.
And he, and more
Than he, and men; the earth, and heav'ns, and all;
That were I crown'd the most imperial monarch
Thereof most worthy, were I the fairest youth
That ever made eye swerve, had force and knowledge
More than was ever man's, I would not prize them
Without her love; for her imploy them all;
Commend them, and condemn them, to her service,
Or to their own perdition.

Pol.
Fairly offer'd.

Cam.
This shews a sound affection.

Shep.
But, my daughter,

Say you the like to him?

Per.
I cannot speak
So well, nothing so well, no, nor mean better.
By th' pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out
The purity of his.

Shep.
Take hands, a bargain;
And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to't:
I give my daughter to him, and will make
Her portion equal his.

Flo.
O, that must be
I'th' virtue of your daughter; one being dead,
I shall have more than you can dream of yet,
Enough then for your wonder. But come on,
Contract us 'fore these witnesses.

Shep.
Come, your hand,
And, daughter, yours.

Pol.
Soft, swain, a-while; 'beseech you,
Have you a father?

Flo.
I have; but what of him?

Pol.
Knows he of this?

Flo.
He neither does, nor shall.

Pol.
Methinks, a father
Is, at the nuptial of his son, a guest
That best becomes the table: 'pray you once more,
Is not your father grown incapable
Of reasonable affairs? is he not stupid
With age, and alt'ring rheums? can he speak? hear?
Know man from man? dispute his own estate?^{9 note}
Lies he not bed-rid? and, again, does nothing,
But what he did being childish?

Flo.
No, good Sir;
He has his health, and ampler strength, indeed,
Than most have of his age.

Pol.
By my white beard,
You offer him, if this be so, a wrong

Something unfilial: Reason, my son
Should chuse himself a wife; but as good reason,
The father (all whose joy is nothing else
But fair posterity) should hold some counsel
In such a business.

Flo.
I yield all this;
But for some other reasons, my grave Sir,
Which 'tis not fit you know, I not acquaint
My father of this business.

Pol.
Let him know't.

Flo.
He shall not.

Pol.
Pr'ythee, let him.

Flo.
No; he must not.

Shep.
Let him, my son, he shall not need to grieve
At knowing of thy choice.

Flo.
Come, come, he must not:
Mark our contract.

Pol.
Mark your divorce, young Sir, [Discovering himself.
Whom son I dare not call: thou art too base
To be acknowledg'd. Thou a scepter's heir,
That thus affect'st a sheep-hook! Thou old traytor,
I'm sorry, that, by hanging thee, I can but
Shorten thy life one week. And thou fresh piece
Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know
The royal fool thou cop'st with—

Shep.
O my heart!

Pol.
I'll have thy beauty scratch'd with briars, and made
More homely than thy state. For thee, fond boy,
If I may ever know thou dost but sigh
That thou no more shalt see this knack, as never
I mean thou shalt, we'll bar thee from succession;
Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin,
* ^noteFar than Deucalion off. Mark thou my words;
Follow us to the court. Thou churl, for this time,

Tho' full of our displeasure, yet we free thee
From the dead blow of it. And you, enchantment,
Worthy enough a herdsman; yea him too,
That makes himself, but for our honour therein,
Unworthy thee; if ever, henceforth, thou
These rural latches to his entrance open,
Or hoop his body more with thy embraces,
I will devise a death as cruel for thee,
As thou art tender to it. [Exit.

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