Ro.
Madame, what ayles yee for to looke so sad.

Lady.
Troth Sonne, I knowe not what, I am not sick,
and yet I am not well: I would be merie
but somewhat lyes so heauie on my hart:
I cannot chuse but sigh. &fslash; You are a Scholler,
I pray ye tell me, may one credit dreames?

Ro.
why ask you that, deare Madame?

Lady.
Because to night, I had the straungest dreame,
that ere my sleep was troubled with.
Me thought twas night,
And that the King and Queene went on the Themes,
in Bardges to heare musique: My Lord and I
were in a little boate me thought, Lord, Lord,
what straunge things liue in slumbers? And beeing neere,
we grapled to the Bardge that bare the King.
But after many pleasing voyces spent,
in that still moouing musique house: me thought,
the violence of the streame did seuer vs
quite from the golden fleet, and hurried vs,
vnto the bridge, which with vnused horror,
we entred at full tide, thence some flight ^note shoote,
beeing caried by the waues: our boate stood still
iust opposite the Tower, and there it turnde,
and turnde about, as when a whirle-poole sucks
the circkled waters: me thought that we bothe cryed,

till that we sunck, where arme in arme we dyed.

Ro.
Giue no respect, deare Madame to fond dreames,
they are but slight illusions of the blood.

Lady.
Tell me not all are so, for often dreames,
are true diuiners, either of good or ill.
I cannot be in quiet, till I heare,
how my Lord fares.

Ro. aside. ^note
Nor I.&fslash; Come hether wife
I will not fright thy mother, to interprete
the nature of a dreame: but trust me sweete,
this night I haue bin troubled with thy father:
beyond all thought.

Ro. wife.
Truely and so haue I.
Me thought I sawe him heere in Chelsey Churche,
standing vppon the Rood loft, now defac'de.
And whilste he kneeld and prayd before the ymage,
it fell with him into the vpper quier, ^note
where my poore father lay all stainde in blood.

Ro.
Our dreames all meet in one conclusion
ffatall, I feare.

Lady.
what's that you talke? I pray ye let me knowe it.

Ro. wife.
Nothing good mother.

Lady.
This is your fashion still, I must knowe nothing.
Call Maister Catesbie, he shall straite to Courte,
and see how my Lord does: I shall not rest,
^notevntill my hart leaue ^note panting on his breast. Enter S^r. Thomas Moore merily, Seruaunts attending.

Daugh.
See where my father comes, ioyfull and merie.

Moore.
As Sea men, hauing past a troubled storme,
daunce on the pleasant shoare: So I, Oh I could speake
now like a Poett. Now afore God, I am passing light,
wife, giue me kinde welcome, thou wast wunt to blame
my kissing, when my beard, was in the stubble,

But, I haue bin trimde of late, I haue had,
a smoothe Courte shauing, in good faith I haue, &fslash; daughters kneele.
God blesse ye: Sonne Roper, giue me your hand.

Ro.
your Honor's welcome home.

Moore.
Honor? ha ha: And how doost wife?

Ro.
He beares him selfe moste straungely.

Lady.
will your Lordship in?

Moore.
Lordship? no wife, that's gon,
the ground was slight that we did leane vppon.

Lady.
Lord that your Honor nere will leaue these Iests,
In faith it ill becomes yee.

Moore.
Oh good wife.
Honor and Iests are bothe together fled, Fol. 18^b
The meriest Councellour of England's dead.

Lady.
whose that my Lord?

Moore.
Still Lord? &fslash; the Lord Chauncellour wife.

Lady.
Thats you.

Moore.
Certaine, but I haue chaungde my life.
Am I not leaner then I was before,
the fatt is gon: my title's only Moore.
Contented with one stile, Ile liue at rest,
they that haue many names, are not still best.
I haue resignde mine office: count'st me not wise?

Lady.
Oh God.

Moore.
Come, breed not female children in your eyes.
the King will haue it so.

Lady.
what's the offence?

Moore.
Tush let that passe, weele talke of that annon.
The King seemes a Phisitian to my fate,
His princely minde, would traine me ^note back to state.

Ro.
Then be his patient my moste ^note honord father.

Moore.
Oh Sonne Roper.
[Vbi turpis est medicina, sanari piget.]

No wife, be merie, and be merie all,
you smilde at rising, weepe not at my fall.
Let's in, and heere ioy like to priuate freends,
since dayes of pleasure haue repentant ends.
The light of greatnesse is with triumph borne:
It sets at midday oft, with publique scorne. exeunt.

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