CLARE.  Return’d so soon from London? what’s the news?

CLOWN.  O mistress, if ever you have seen Demoniseacleer, look into mine eyes:  mine eyes are Severn, plain Severn; the Thames nor the river of Tweed are nothing to them:  nay, all the rain that fell at Noah’s flood had not the discretion that my eyes have:  that drunk but up the whole world, and I have drowned all the way betwixt this and London.

CLARE.  Thy news, good Robin.

CLOWN.  My news, mistress?  I’ll tell you strange news.  The dust upon London way being so great, that not a lord, gentleman, knight, or knave could travel, lest his eyes should be blown out:  at last they all agreed to hire me to go before them, when I, looking but upon this letter, did with this water, this very water, lay the dust, as well as if it had rained from the beginning of April till the last of May.

CLARE.  A letter from my Scarborow I give it thy mistress.

CLOWN.  But, mistress—­

CLARE.  Prythee, begone,
I would not have my father nor these gentlemen
Be witness of the comfort it doth bring.

CLOWN.  O, but mistress—­

CLARE.  Prythee, begone,
With this and the glad news leave me alone.

[Exit CLOWN.

THOM.  ’Tis your turn, knight; take your liquor, know I am bountiful;
I’ll forgive any man anything that he owes me but his drink, and that
I’ll be paid for.

CLARE.  Nay, gentlemen, the honesty of mirth
Consists not in carousing with excess;
My father hath more welcomes than in wine. 
Pray you, no more.

THOM.  Says my sister so?  I’ll be ruled by thee then.  But do you hear?  I hope hereafter you’ll lend me some money.  Now we are half-drunk, let’s go to dinner.  Come, knight.
                               [Exeunt.

Manet CLARE.

CLARE.  I am glad you’re gone. 
Shall I now open’t? no, I’ll kiss it first,
Because this outside last did kiss his hand. 
Within this fold (I’ll call’t a sacred sheet)
Are writ black lines, where our white hearts shall meet. 
Before I ope this door of my delight,
Methinks I guess how kindly he doth write
Of his true love to me; as chuck, sweetheart,
I prythee do not think the time too long
That keeps us from the sweets of marriage rites: 
And then he sets my name, and kisses it,
Wishing my lips his sheet to write upon;
With like desire (methinks) as mine own thoughts
Ask him now here for me to look upon;
Yet at the last thinking his love too slack,
Ere it arrive at my desired eyes,
He hastens up his message with like speed,
Even as I break this ope, wishing to read. 
O, what is here? mine eyes are not mine own;
Sure, sure, they are not. [O eyes,]
Though you have been my lamps this sixteen years,
                          [Lets fall the letter. 
You do belie my Scarborow reading so;