Clow.  Then, master Dicke Bowyer, after my heartie commendations, adue! but as for the rest I shall, I say no more, I shall. [Exit.

Bow.  How now, Core? how can you answer your being a tippling when you should stand Sentinel?

Core.  Beleeve me, Captayne, I had but a whiffe or two; for I was passing dry.

Bow.  Thou art alwayes dry:  the whorson Maultworm has a throat like the burning Clyme or a Glassemakers Furnace.  But your remove from thence has sav’d you from the boults.  How now? what Water-Spanyell have we heere?

    Enter Nod.

Core.  Tis Lieutenant Nod.

Nod.  Captayne, deride me not.  I protest I came by this mischaunce by good service, by following a spy that came to discover our army.

Bow.  O notable Rogue! did not I find thee asleepe and threw thee into a ditch?

Nod.  Was’t you? by this light, I took you for a spy.

Bow.  Yet saw me not no more then a Molewarp.  This is an egregious Rogue.

Nod.  Yes, I saw you well ynough and I did but try how you would use me.

Bow.  By this flesh and bloud many one that lyes in his grave was not halfe so sencelesse.  But the Watch breakes up:  every one to his quarter, away!

         [Exeunt.

[SCENE 2.]

Enter Clowne.

Clow.  Tis true, they are gone together, and I am sent to watch Prince Ferdinand and the Earle of Pembrooke.  This way they went, but they are got out of sight.  I were very bad to be a hound, that have no better a sent.  If they were hares as they are men, I should think them squatted.  But, husht! here comes one of them.

    Enter Ferdinand.

Ferd.  The morne lookes red, red mornes doe threat a storme;
That storme shall light on Pembrooke or my selfe. 
This is our meeting place; here runnes the streame
That parts our camps; the time consorts the place;
And (Pembrooke) if thy reputation hold,
It is thy q. to enter.

    Enter Pembrooke.

Clow.  Heere comes the tother; this is lucke upon lucke.  Now will I run and fetch my mistris the Lady Katharine to part their fray. [Exit.

Pem.  Good end succeed my early heavynesse! 
Three times my feet, as loth to guide me hither,
Have stumbled in a playne and even way. 
My sword forsooke his scabbard once or twice;
Bloud from my nostrills thrice hath spowted forth,
And such a dymnesse overrunnes my sight
That I have tane a tree to bee a man
And question’d with it about serious things. 
This is the place where I must meet my friend: 
Yonder he stands.—­Good morrow, Ferdinand.

Ferd.  Good morrow to thy death.  Draw, Pembrooke, draw, The ground thou treadst upon must be thy grave.

Pem.  Draw upon Ferdinand?