She lov'd a black-haird man.

ARCITE.

She did so; well, Sir.

PALAMON.

And I have heard some call him Arcite, and--

ARCITE.

Out with't, faith.

PALAMON.

She met him in an Arbour: What did she there, Cuz? play o'th virginals?

ARCITE.

Something she did, Sir.

PALAMON.

Made her groane a moneth for't, or 2. or 3. or 10.

ARCITE.

The Marshals Sister Had her share too, as I remember, Cosen, Else there be tales abroade; you'l pledge her?

PALAMON.

Yes.

ARCITE.

A pretty broune wench t'is. There was a time When yong men went a hunting, and a wood, And a broade Beech: and thereby hangs a tale:--heigh ho!

PALAMON.

For Emily, upon my life! Foole, Away with this straind mirth; I say againe, That sigh was breathd for Emily; base Cosen, Dar'st thou breake first?

ARCITE.

You are wide.

PALAMON.

By heaven and earth, ther's nothing in thee honest.

ARCITE.

Then Ile leave you: you are a Beast now.

PALAMON.

As thou makst me, Traytour.

ARCITE.

Ther's all things needfull, files and shirts, and perfumes: Ile come againe some two howres hence, and bring That that shall quiet all,

PALAMON.

A Sword and Armour?

ARCITE.

Feare me not; you are now too fowle; farewell.

Get off your Trinkets; you shall want nought.

PALAMON.

Sir, ha--

ARCITE.

Ile heare no more. [Exit.]

PALAMON.

If he keepe touch, he dies for't. [Exit.]

Scaena 4. (Another part of the forest.)

[Enter Iaylors daughter.]

DAUGHTER.

I am very cold, and all the Stars are out too, The little Stars, and all, that looke like aglets: The Sun has seene my Folly. Palamon!

Alas no; hees in heaven. Where am I now?

Yonder's the sea, and ther's a Ship; how't tumbles!

And ther's a Rocke lies watching under water; Now, now, it beates upon it; now, now, now, Ther's a leak sprung, a sound one, how they cry!

Spoon her before the winde, you'l loose all els: Vp with a course or two, and take about, Boyes.

Good night, good night, y'ar gone.--I am very hungry.

Would I could finde a fine Frog; he would tell me Newes from all parts o'th world, then would I make A Carecke of a c.o.c.kle sh.e.l.l, and sayle By east and North East to the King of Pigmes, For he tels fortunes rarely. Now my Father, Twenty to one, is trust up in a trice To morrow morning; Ile say never a word.