Fra.  Ile cheerefully attend you, I love the sport; as earlie as you please, Sir.

Ri.  I wish wee had all pleasures to delight you, But no thing wants in my true love to serve you.

Fra.—­Yet I must cuckold him; I cannot helpe it.

Act the Third.

    Enter Thomas with Sir Richards bootes.

Tho.  Sir.

Within Ri.  Whoes that? Thomas?

Tho.  The sun is up before you.  Here be your bootes.

Ri.  That’s well.

Within La.  I preethe donot rise yet; it is hardly day.  Sirra, who bid you call him so earlie?  Sir Richard wonot rise yet.

Tho.  I cannot helpe it, it is none of my fault.

La.  Wheres Doroty?

    [Enter Doroty.

Do.  Here, Madam; what make you up so soone, Thomas?

Tho.  O Mistres Dority, tis e’ne long of you, for betweene sleepe and awake your remembrance came to me this morning, and Thomas was up presently.

    Enter Sir Richard [& Lady].

Ri.  You must excuse me, wife;
I meane to kill a brace of hares before
You thinke tis day.  Come, on with my Bootes, Thomas;
And Dorothy goe you to Sir Francis Chamber,
Tell him the Day growes old and I am readie,
Our horses and the merry hounds expect us.

La.  Any excuse to leave me.

Ri.  You may take
Your ease a bed still, Madam.  Ile not loose
One morning that invites so pleasantly,
To heare my Doggs, for a new Maidenhead, I.
Twas for these sports and my excess of charge
I left the towne:  besides the Citty foggs
And steame of Brick hills almost stifled me;
This Aire is pure and all my owne.

Tho.  My Ladie
Meanes shee would have you gett another heire,
Sir, for your lands; though it be against my Master
The young Captaine, yet she speakes but reason. 
And now I talke o’th Captaine, Sir,
Would you had given him Counsell.

Ri.  To what?

Tho.  Before he tooke this huffing[248] trade upon him,
To have been a man of peace, I meane a Justice. 
Nature has made him fit for both alike. 
Hee’s now at charge to keepe a Captaine Schoolemaster;
He might have sav’d the qua[r]teridge of his Tutor
If I had been his Clarke:  and then the income
That broken heads bring in, and new yeares guifts
From soder’d virgins and their shee provintialls
Whose warren must be licenc’d from our office!

Ri.  Away you prating knave.—­

    [Enter Dorothy.

What? is he readie?

Do.  Alas, hee’s almost dead.

Ri.  How? dead?

Do.  He has been troubled with a fitt o’th stone, Sir, all this night.  Sweet gentleman he groanes, And sweates, and cannot—­