Hip.  Good Clarence, doe not worke your selfe disease My Lady comes to ease and comfort you.

Pene.  And we are handmaides to her to that end.

Cla.  Ladies, my hart will breake if it be held Within the verge of this presumtuous chaire.

Eug.  Why, Clarence is your judgement bent to show
A common lovers passion? let the World,
That lives without a hart, and is but showe,
Stand on her empty, and impoisoned forme,
I knowe thy kindenesse and have seene thy hart
Clest [Cleft?] in my uncles free and friendly lippes,
And I am only now to speake and act
The rite’s due to thy love:  oh, I cood weepe
A bitter showre of teares for thy sicke state,
I cood give passion all her blackest rites
And make a thousand vowes to thy deserts. 
But these are common, knowledge is the bond,
The seale, and crowne of our united mindes;
And that is rare and constant, and for that,
To my late written hand I give thee this. 
See, heaven, the soule thou gau’st is in this hand. 
This is the Knot of our eternitie,
Which fortune, death, nor hell, shall ever loose.

    Enter Bullaker, Iack, Wil.

Ia.  What an unmannerly tricke is this of thy Countesse to give the noble count her uncle the slippe thus?

Wil.  Vnmannerlie, you villaynes?  O that I were worthy to weare a Dagger to any purpose for thy sake?

Bul.  Why young Gentlemen, utter your anger with your fists.

Wil.  That cannot be, man, for all fists are shut you know and utter nothing; and besides I doe not thinke my quarrell just for my Ladies protection in this cause, for I protest she does most abhominablie miscarrie her selfe.

Ia.  Protest, you sawsie Iacke, you!  I shood doe my country, and Court-ship good service to beare thy coalts teeth out of thy head, for suffering such a reverend word to passe their guarde; why, the oldest Courtier in the World, man, can doe noe more then protest.

Bul.  Indeede, Page, if you were in Fraunce, you wood be broken upon a wheele for it, there is not the best Dukes sonne in France dares say I protest, till he be one and thirty yeere old at least, for the inheritance of that word is not to be possest before.

Wil.  Well, I am sorry for my presumtion then, but more sory for my Ladies, marie most sorry for thee good Lord Momford, that will make us most of all sory for our selves, if wee doe not fynde her out.

Ia.  Why, alas, what shood wee doe? all the starres of our heaven see, we seeke her as fast as we can if she be crept into a rush we will seeke her out or burne her.

    Enter Momford.