Onae.  Sorrow becomes me best.

Corn.  A suit of laugh and lye downe[183] would weare better.

Onae.  What should I doe to be merry, Cornego?

Corn.  Be not sad.

Onae.  But what’s the best mirth in the world?

Corn.  Marry, this:  to see much, say little, doe little, get little, spend little and want nothing.

Onae.  Oh, but there is a mirth beyond all these: 
This picture has so vex’d me I’me half mad. 
To spite it therefore I’le sing any song
Thy selfe shalt tune:  say then, what mirth is best?

Corn.  Why then, Madam, what I knocke out now is the very Maribone of mirth; and this it is.

Onae.  Say on.

Corn.  The best mirth for a Lawyer is to have fooles to his Clients; for Citizens to have Noblemen pay their debts; for Taylors to have store of Sattin brought in for them—­how little soere their hours are—­they’ll be sure to have large yards:  the best mirth for bawds is to have fresh handsome whores, and for whores to have rich guls come aboard their pinnaces, for then they are sure to build Gully-Asses.

Onae.  These to such soules are mirth, but to mine none:  Away!

[Exit Corn.

Enter Cardinall.

Car.  Peace to you, Lady.

Onae.  I will not sinne so much as hope for peace:  And ’tis a mocke ill suits your gravity.

Card.  I come to knit the nerves of your lost strength, To build your ruines up, to set you free From this your voluntary banishment, And give new being to your murd’red fame.

Onae.  What Aesculapius can doe this?

Card.  The King—­’tis from the King I come.

Onae.  A name I hate:  Oh I am deafe now to your Embassie.

Card.  Heare what I speake.

Onae.  Your language, breath’d from him, Is deaths sad doome upon a wretch condemn’d.

Car.  Is it such poyson?

Onae.  Yes; and, were you christall,
What the King fills you with, wud make you breake. 
You should, my Lord, be like these robes you weare,
Pure as the Dye and like that reverend shape;
Nurse thoughts as full of honour, zeale and purity. 
You should be the Court-Diall and direct
The King with constant motion; be ever beating
(Like to Clocke-Hammers) on his Iron heart,
To make it sound cleere and to feele remorse: 
You should unlocke his soule, wake his dead conscience
Which, like a drowsie Centinell, gives leave
For sinnes vast army to beleaguer him. 
His ruines will be ask’d for at your hands.

Car.  I have rais’d up a scaffolding to save Both him and you from falling:  doe but heare me.

Onae.  Be dumbe for ever.

Car.  Let your feares thus dye: 
By all the sacred relliques of the Church
And by my holy orders, what I minister
Is even the spirit of health.