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I bring your honour comfortable news, Your son's returned from Pisa, Heart, a new fashion, A Lady poor, beautiful and chased? clean From the bias of Custom: to be poor, painted, And proud is as continued ̄ mon in Genoa, as felt and feather In the fortunate Island: but chased and poor, As singular and rare, as Conscience with the Anam baptist. Horatio, he that puts chastetie to the quick, & honour to the stab, but isle show him the nature of a right Frenchman, deny him homage, for swear all legiance, and come behind hand in cash keeping, & with his own purse maintain you against him. In bald sentences, your noted wrongs are pit tied. By me, lodgings prepared and diet, which I humbly tender your honour, as first payment of the and cient debt, my service owes you. At mine own mother's, and though I say't, she keeps and honest house, though my father be a Cit tiz n. Neither fool nor Physician, but and ingenious Pothecary. Oh Lord Madam, better men then he strain curtes j with their warrants in this age, beside, you being musical, shall meet much content, for my more there lodges three or four Knights & Ladies Daugh ters that practice music and needlework, and will no doubt be exceeding proud of your company, wilt please you walk? Her death my Lord that hath cut out the Like, For both your honours, the Countess is deceased. I'll eell your honour that hereafter and give you the ground of and admirable j ast. No I'll tell you that in private, the life of a jest thrives in the first revealing, it concerns the manner of your ants death and a law-trick of your uncle. No tomb but Cistern filled with tears. No heart, but sink of grief and fears. Speak again. Hudge wrongs. Thy life. life. No. Pray God my tongue can my hearts cou ̄ sell keep Would? are you vanished? let me see, a may be fallen a sleep against some pillar, for isle be sworn a talked we rye idly, Abut decessit evasit erupit, I would fain know that Wag that can put me down for a woman's Ghost extempore, especially if it were to be performed under a tomb cloth, but here lay the desperate venture, had she chanced to have risen, and spoke before his Queen, as about this time she must tise, or my sleepy drink plays, the drowsy companion with her. Heart a me, my master again, what cross points are these? I see I must betake me to my late refuge. I. Was ever poor little knave put to his last trumps as I am? what shall I do now my heart goes pit a pat in my belly Like a pair of washing beetles, should a return again now, as my hand to a Lobster pie a will, all the Fat were in the fire, but hark 'tis one a clock, and joust about this minute she should play the wagtail and stir. O she speaks, Fates and be good girls keep my master away, and let his man have a little sport with his mistress. No. Earth. Live again. Youth. Ahlas poor stirring ghost art over sprighted. mestresse. all and more anon. The sleepy drink hath played the honest man, I'll tell you that in a more private room, Away I'll tell you a strange wonder, Then wintes lightning, or Christmas thunder, Then to my father's trip and go, Nimble prevention ont runs woe. I could tell your honour a tale in your ear to the contratie, I must needs say your will was good, but my father being your drug-seller, instead of a deadly poi son, gave you a sleepy potion, do you remember the Ecc oh at the tomb? though I played the knave with you, I did Like and honest man with her. Yes Madam, more then ever I paid you ho nestly, and were a not my Master. Very civil and most quiet resort, patients, the house is set round with patients twice or thrice a day, and because theile be sure not to want drink, every one brings his own water in and Urinal with him. where's the Prince? Despair. O, shall I venture? would, shall I enter? Shield me Apollo, the grou ̄ worser is so hollow That every step I tread upon it, Methinks it sings a dead men Sonnet. Fates, o Fates be honest Drabs, Fear gives me ten thousand stabs, I dare not further 'tis wilful murder, Thus late to tread the cloister vaults. For though i'm small, I have great men's faults, Then gentle Fates, take some remorse, I watch and honest, kind, quick course. Grant that no Hobgoblins fright me, No hungry devils rise up and bite me: No Urchin, Elves, or drunkards Ghosts, Shove me against walls or posts, Oh grant I may no black thing touch, Though many men love to meet such. But here's the tomb, my Hope's sufficing, I watch a dainrie Ducks uprising, Her cheeks now are chilly, as is the pale lily, (Roses) But when her eye uncloses, theile look Like two fair A light my master? or some spright, Yet What need Devils have candlelight, 'Tis he, all hid, isle not be seen, For once this tomb shall be my screen. I go. No more?