Eccho.  Lyes.

Io.  True we are both perswaded thou doest lye.

Eccho.  Thou doest lye.

Io.  Who?  I?

Eccho.  Who?  I?

Io.  I, thou.

Eccho.  I, thou.

Io.  Thou dar’st not come and say so to my face.

Eccho.  Thy face.

Io.  He make you then for ever prating more.

Eccho.  More.

Io.  Will ye prate more?  Ile see that presently.

Asca.  Stay, Ioculo, it is the Eccho, Boy,
That mocks our griefe and laughes at our annoy. 
Hard by this grove there is a goodly plaine
Betwixt two hils, still fresh with drops of raine,
Where never spreading Oake nor Poplar grew
Might hinder the prospect or other view,
But all the country that about it lyes
Presents it selfe vnto our mortall eyes;
Save that vpon each hill, by leavie trees,
The Sun at highest his scorching heat may leese: 
There, languishing, my selfe I will betake
As heaven shal please and only for her sake.

Io.  Stay, maister; I have spied the fellow that mocks vs all this while:  see where he sits.

Aramanthus sitting.

Asca.  The very shape my vision told me off, That I should meet with as I strayed this way.

Io.  What lynes he drawes? best go not over farre.

Asca.  Let me alone; thou doest but trouble mee.

Io.  Youle trouble vs all annon, ye shall see.

Asca.  God speed, faire Sir.

Io.  My Lord, do ye not mark How the skie thickens and begins to darke?

Asca.  Health to ye, Sir.

Io.  Nay, then, God be our speed.

Ara.  Forgive me, Sir; I sawe ye not indeed.

Asca.  Pardon me rather for molesting you.

Io.  Such another face I never knew.

Ara.  Thus, studious, I am wont to passe the time By true proportion of each line from line.

Io.  Oh now I see he was learning to spell:  Theres A. B. C. in midst of his table.

Asca.  Tell me, I pray ye, sir, may I be bold to crave.  The cause of your abode within this cave?

Ara.  To tell you that, in this extreme distresse,
Were but a tale of Fortunes ficklenesse. 
Sometime I was a Prince of Lesbos Ile
And liv’d beloved, whilst my good stars did smile;
But clowded once with this world’s bitter crosse
My joy to grife, my gaine converts to losse.

Asca.  Forward, I pray ye; faint not in your tale.

Io.  It will not all be worth a cup of Ale.

Ara.  A short discourse of that which is too long,
How ever pleasing, can never seeme but wrong;
Yet would my tragicke story fit the stage: 
Pleasaunt in youth but wretched in mine age,
Blinde fortune setting vp and pulling downe,
Abusde by those my selfe raisde to renowne: 
But that which wrings me neer and wounds my hart,
Is a false brothers base vnthankfull part.