Hornes and Noise within:  Enter Antony meeting Damianus.

Ant. Cosmo had like beene kild; the Boare receiving[154]
A Speare full in the Flanke from Cosmo’s hand,
Foaming with rage he ranne at him, unhorst him
And had, but that he fell behinde an Oake
Of admirable greatnesse, torne out his bowels;
His very Tuskes, striking into the tree,
Made the old Champion[155] shake.

    [Enter Cosmo.

Dam.  Where are the Dogges?

Cosmo.  No matter for the Curres:  I scapt well, but cannot finde the King.

Anton.  When did you see him?

Cosmo.  Not since the Boare tos’d up Both horse and rider.

    Enter Epidophorus and all the Huntsmen in a hurry.

Epi.  A Liter for the King; the King is hurt.

Ant.  How?

Epi.  No man knowes:  some say stung by an Adder As from his horse he fell; some cry, by the Boare.

Anton.  The Boare never came neare him.

Dam.  The King’s Physitians!

Cosmo.  Runne for the King’s Physitians.

Epi.  Conduct us to him.

Anton.  A fatall hunting when a King doth fall:  All earthly pleasures are thus washt in gall.

[Exeunt.

(SCENE 2.)

Eugenius discovered sitting loaden with many Irons,
a Lampe burning by him; then enter Clowne with a
piece of browne bread and a Carret roote.

Eugen.  Is this my Dyet?

Clown.  Yes, marry is it; though it be not Dyet bread[156] ’tis bread, ’tis your dinner; and though this be not the roote of all mischiefe yet ’tis a Carret, and excellent good meate if you had powderd Beefe to it.

Eugen.  I am content with this.

Clown.  If you bee not I cannot helpe it; for I am threatned to be hang’d if I set but a Tripe before you or give you a bone to gnaw.

Eugen.  For me thou shalt not suffer.

Clown.  I thank you; but were not you better be no good Christian, as I am, and so fill your belly as to lie here and starve and be hang’d thus in Chaines?

Eugen.  No, ’tis my tryumph; all these Chaines to me Are silken Ribbonds, this course bread a banquet; This gloomy Dungeon is to me more pleasing Than the Kings Palace; and cou’d I winne thy soule To shake off her blacke ignorance, thou, as I doe, Would’st feele thirst, hunger, stripes and Irons nothing, Nay, count death nothing.  Let me winne thee to me.

Clown.  Thank yee for that:  winne me from a Table full of good meat to leape at a crust!  I am no Scholler, and you (they say) are a great one; and schollers must eate little, so shall you.  What a fine thing is it for me to report abroad of you that you are no great feeder, no Cormorant!  What a quiet life is it when a womans tongue lies still! and is’t not as good when a mans teeth lyes still?