Aram.  I take your meaning better then your speech, And I will graunt the thing you doo beseech.  But, for the teares of Lovers be no toyes, He tell their chaunce in parables to boyes.

Fris.  In what ye will lets heare our maisters’ luck.

Aram.  Thy maister’s Doe shall turne unto a Buck; (To Frisco.) Thy maister’s Eawe be chaunged to a Ram; (To Mopso.) Thy maister seeks a maide and findes a man, (To Ioculo.) Yet for his labor shall he gaine his meede; The other two shall sigh to see him speede.

Mop.  Then my maister shall not win the shepheardesse?

Aram.  No, hast thee home and bid him right his wrong, The shepheardesse will leave his flock ere long.

Mop.  Ile run to warne my master of that.
                                      [Exit.

Fris.  My maister wood-man takes but woodden paines to no purpose, I thinke:  what say ye, shall he speed?

Aram.  No, tell him so, and bid him tend his Deare And cease to woe:  he shall not wed this yeare.

Fris.  I am not sorie for it; farewell, Ioculo.
          
                                    [Exit.

Io.  I may goe with thee, for I shall speed even so too by staying behinde.

Aram.  Better, my Boy, thou shalt thy maister finde
And he shall finde the partie he requires,
And yet not find the summe of his desires. 
Keep on that way; thy maister walkes before,
Whom, when thou findst, loose him good Boy no more.

[Exit ambo.

Actus Quartus.

Enter Ascanio and Ioculo.

Asca.  Shall then my travell ever endles prove,
That I can heare no tydings of my Love? 
In neither desart, grove, nor shadie wood
Nor obscure thicket where my foote hath trod? 
But every plough-man and rude shepheard swain
Doth still reply unto my greater paine? 
Some Satyre, then, or Godesse of this place,
Some water Nymph vouchsafed me so much grace
As by some view, some signe, or other sho,
I may haue knowledge if she lives or no.

Eccho.  No.

Asca.  Then my poore hart is buried too in wo:  Record it once more if the truth be so.

Eccho.  So.

Asca.  How? that Eurymine is dead, or lives?

Eccho.  Lives.

Asca.  Now, gentle Goddesse, thou redeem’st my soule From death to life:  Oh tell me quickly, where?

Eccho.  Where?

Asca.  In some remote far region or else neere?

Eccho.  Neere.

Asca.  Oh, what conceales her from my thirstie eyes?  Is it restraint or some unknown disguise?

Eccho.  Disguise.

Io.  Let me be hang’d my Lord, but all is lyes.