Enter shepheards singing.

Sil.  Thinks Gemulo to beare the bell away
By singing of a simple Rundelay? 
No, I have fellowes whose melodious throats
Shall euen as far exceed those homely notes
As doth the Nightingale in musicke passe
The most melodious bird that euer was: 
And, for an instance, here they are at hand;
When they have done let our deserts be scand.

    Enter woodmen and sing.

Eu.  Thanks to you both; you both deserue so well
As I want skill your worthinesse to tell. 
And both do I commend for your good will,
And both Ile honor, loue, and reuerence still;
For neuer virgin had such kindnes showne
Of straungers, yea, and men to her vnknowne. 
But more, to end this sudden controuersie,
Since I am made an Vmpire in the plea,
This is my verdite:  Ile intreate of you
A Cottage for my dwelling, and of you
A flocke to tend; and so, indifferent,
My gratefull paines on either shal be spent.

Sil.  I am agreed, and, for the loue I beare, Ile boast I haue a Tenant is so faire.

Ge.  And I will hold it as a rich possession That she vouchsafes to be of my profession.

Sil.  Then, for a sign that no man here hath wrong, From hence lets all conduct her with a song.

The end of the First Act.

Actus Secundus.

    Enter Ascanio, and Ioculo his Page.

Asca.  Away, Ioculo.

Io.  Here, sir, at hand.

Asca.  Ioculo, where is she?

Io.  I know not.

Asca.  When went she?

Io.  I know not.

Asca.  Which way went she?

Io.  I know not.

Asca.  Where should I seeke her?

Io.  I know not.

Asca.  When shall I find her?

Io.  I know not.

Asca.  A vengeance take thee, slaue, what dost thou know?

Io.  Marry, sir, that I doo know.

Asca.  What, villiane?

Io.  And[102] you be so testie, go looke.  What a coyles here with you?  If we knew where she were what need we seeke her?  I think you are a lunaticke:  where were you when you should haue lookt after her? now you go crying vp and downe after your wench like a boy that had lost his horne booke.

Asca.  Ah, my sweet Boy!

Io.  Ah, my sweet maister! nay, I can giue you as good words as you can giue me; alls one for that.

Asca.  What canst thou giue me no reliefe?

Io.  Faith, sir, there comes not one morsel of comfort from my lips to sustaine that hungry mawe of your miserie:  there is such a dearth at this time.  God amend it!

Asca.  Ah, Ioculo, my brest is full of griefe, And yet my hope that only wants reliefe.