Did.  Be there a dearthe of arte to helpe complexion, And for theym many housses of correctyon.

Gan.  And if it be possyble o let the Bedle Not with theire money but hys owne whypp medle, And lashe theym soundlye.

Did.  No, thats not so good:  May all theire soundnes tourne toth poxes foode.

Gan.  May constables to cadges[102] styll comend theym And theire knowne foes, age & ill cloathes attend theym.

Did.  May they want skyll to banyshe theire breathes stynke, And onlye Barbers potyons be their drynke.  May theire sore wast theire lynnen into lynte For medlinge with other stones then flynte.

Gan.  And to conclude thys hartylie breathd cursse; Theire lives beinge monstrous, let theire ends be worsse.

Did.  Amen.

Enter Gabriella.

Gab.  Amen to what?

Did.  Faythe, madam, a was prayinge for hys syster.

Gan.  O you are wellcome.—­Worthye frend, withdrawe.—­
                                         [Exit Didier. 
Nowe my rare pollytycke syster, what will please you?

Gab.  My rare ingenyous brother, why doe you aske?

Gan.  Ile tell thee, woman, & observe it well,
Thou shalt remayne the porest wretche alyve,
The most forsaken of delight & pleasure
That ever breathd a myserable life,
If I may knowe what pleasses you.  Beware
And answere wiselye:  you are leaveinge nowe
All that hathe tyckld your insatyatt bloode,
When you resolve my questyon:  I will strypp
Your sweete contents of to the naked soule
Before you parte.  Doe you laughe? by heaven I will.

Gab.  What brave exployts youle doe uppon the sodayne!

Gan.  If you account theym so tys well, tys well.

Gab.  Fye, fye, what moves you to thys froward wellcome?

Gan.  Calst it allreadye frowarde? shallowe foole,
I should salute thee with my daggers poynte
And never make thys parley; but I’me kynde,
And youle confes it when you reade that letter. 
You knowe the charackter & the whole scope
Ere you peruse one worde, I make no questyon. 
But reade it, doe, that whyle you seeme to reede
You may make readye for another worlde. 
Why doe you studye? flatter not your selfe
With hope of an excusse.

Gab.  You are not madd!

Gan.  Yes, foorsoothe,
I will confes my selfe emptye of sence,
Dealinge with suche a wyttie sparke as you. 
Theres no comparysson:  a sparke, sayd I? 
I meant a bonefyer made of wytt & lust;
One nourryshes another.  Have you doone? 
Does any thynge you reade allay your coldnes.

Gab.  You thynke thys letter myne?

Gan.  I doe indeede,
And will with horror to thy wanton thoughts
Make thee confes it, that thy soule beinge easd
May fly away the sooner.