Count.

I will now hear, what say you of this gentlewoman?

Stew.

Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty, and make ^{a note}foul the clearness of our deservings, when of our selves we publish them.

Count.

What does this knave here? get you gone, sirrah: the complaints I have heard of you, I do not all believe; 'tis my slowness that I do not, for I know you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours.

Clo.

'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.

Count.

Well, Sir.

Clo.

No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damn'd; but if I have your ladyship's good will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.

Count.

Wilt thou needs be a beggar?

Clo.

I do beg your good will in this case.

Count.

In what case?

Clo.

In lsbel's case and mine own; service is no heritage, and I think I shall never have the blessing of God, 'till I have issue o' my body; for they say bearns are blessings.

Count.

Tell me the reason why thou wilt marry.

Clo.

My poor body, madam, requires it. I am driven on by the flesh, and he must needs go that the devil drives.

Count.

Is this all your worship's reason?

Clo.

Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are.

Count.

May the world know them?

Clo.

I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are, and indeed I do marry that I may repent.

Count.

Thy marriage sooner than thy wickedness.

Clo.

I am out of friends, madam, and I hope to have friends for my wife's sake.

Count.

Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

Clo.

Y'are shallow, madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me which I am weary of; he that † ^noteeres my land, spares my team, and gives me leave to inne the crop; if I be his cuckold, he's my drudge; he that comforts my wife, is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that cherisheth my flesh and blood, loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my flesh and blood, is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be contented to be what they are,

there were no fear in marriage; for young Charbon the puritan, and old Poysam the papist, howsoe'er their hearts are sever'd in religion, their heads are both one, they may joul horns together like any deer i'th' herd.

Count.

Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth'd and calumnious knave?

Clo.
A prophet, I madam, and I speak the truth the next way,
For I the ballad will repeat, which men full true shall find,
Your marriage comes by destiny, your cuckow sings by kind.

Count.

Get you gone, Sir, I'll talk with you more anon.

Stew.

May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you, of her I am to speak.

Count.

Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her, Helen I mean.

Clo.
Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,
Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
Was this King Priam's joy?
With that she sighed as she stood,
And gave this sentence then;
Among nine bad if one be good,
There's yet one good in ten.

Count.

What, one good in ten? You corrupt the song, sirrah.

Clo.

One good woman in ten, madam, which is a purifying o'th' song: would God would serve the world so all the year, we'd find no fault with the tithe woman if I were the parson; one in ten, quoth a'! an we might have a good woman born but every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well; a man may draw his heart out, ere he pluck one.

Count.

You'll be gone, Sir knave, and do as I command you.

Clo.

That man that should be at woman's command, and yet no hurt done! tho' honesty be no puritan, yet it will do

no hurt; it will wear the surplis of humility over the black gown of a big heart: I am going, forsooth, the business is for Helen to come hither.

Count.

Well now.

Stew.

I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman intirely.

Count.

Faith I do; her father bequeath'd her to me; and she herself, without other advantages, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds; there is more owing her than is paid, and more shall be paid her than she'll demand.

Stew.

Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wish'd me; alone she was, and did communicate to her self, her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touch'd not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she lov'd your son; Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love, no god, that would not extend his might, only where qualities were level: complain'd against the queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor Knight to be surpriz'd without rescue in the first assault, or ransom afterward. This she deliver'd in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e'er I heard a virgin exclaim in, which I held it my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; sithence in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it.

Count.

You have discharg'd this honestly, keep it to your self; many likelihoods inform'd me of this before, which hung so tottering in the ballance, that I could neither believe nor misdoubt: pray you leave me, stall this in your bosom, and I thank you for your honest care; I will speak with you further anon.

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