King.  O good Ladie, who can live without living?

    Enter Momford.

Mom.  Still heere, Lordings? good companions yfaith; I see you come not for vittles.

Tal.  Vittles, my Lord?  I hope wee have vittles at home.

Mom.  I, but, sweet Lord, there is a principle in the Polititians physicke:  Eat not[37] your meat upon other mens trenchers, and beware of surfets of your owne coste.  Manie good companions cannot abide to eate meate at home, ye know.  And how faires my noble Neece now, and her faire Ladie Feeres[38]?

Eug.  What winde blowes you hether, troe?

Mom.  Harke you, Madam, the sweet gale of one Clarences breath, with this his paper sayle blowes me hether.

Eug.  Aye me still, in that humour? beshrewe my heart, if I take anie Papers from him.

Mom.  Kinde bosome doe thou take it then.

Eug.  Nay then never trust me.

Mom.  Let it fall then or cast it away, you were best, that every body may discover your love suits, doe; theres somebody neare, you note it.—­And how have you spent the time since Dinner, nobles?

King.  At chests, my Lord.

Mom.  Read it, Neece.

Eug.  Heere, beare it backe, I pray.

Mom.  I beare you on my backe to heare you.  And how play the Ladies, sir Cuthberd? what men doe they play best withall, with Knights or rookes?

Tal.  With Knights, my Lord.

Mom.  T’is pitty their boord is no broader, and that some men called guls are not added to their game.

King.  Why, my Lo? it needs not, they make the Knights guls.

Mom.  That’s pretty, sir Cuthbert.—­You have begon I know, Neece; forth I command you.

Eug.  O yare a sweet uncle.

Mom.  I have brought here a little Greeke, to helpe mee out withall, and shees so coy of her learning forsooth, she makes it strange.—­Lords and Ladies, I invite you all to supper to night, and you shall not deny me.

All.  We will attend your Lordshippe.

Tal.  Come Ladies let’s into the gallery a little.

[Exeunt.

Mom.  And now what saies mine owne deare Neece yfaith?

Eug.  What shood she say to the backside of a paper?

Mom.  Come, come, I know you have byn a’ the belly side.

Eug.  Now was there ever Lord so prodigall Of his owne honour’d bloud, and dignity?

Mom.  Away with these same horse-faire allegations; will you answer the letter?

Eug.  Gods my life, you goe like a cunning spokesman, answer uncle; what, doe you thinke me desperate of a husband?

Mom.  Not so, Neece; but carelesse of your poore Vncle.

Eug.  I will not write, that’s certaine.