Mom.  Said like my Neece, and worthy of my friend.

    Enter Furnifall, Tal:  King:  Goos:  Rud:  Foul:  Ia:  Will, Bullaker.

Mom.  My Lords, take witnes of an absolute wonder, A marriage made for vertue, onely vertue:  My friend, and my deere Neece are man and wife.

Fur.  A wonder of mine honour, and withall A worthy presedent for all the World; Heaven blesse you for it, Lady, and your choyce.

Ambo.  Thankes, my good Lord.

Ta.  An Accident that will make pollicie blush,
And all the Complements of wealth and state,
In the succesfull and unnumbred Race
That shall flow from it, fild with fame and grace.

Ki.  So may it speed deere Countesse, worthy Clarence.

Ambo.  Thankes, good sir Cuthberd.

Fur.  Captaine be not dismaid, Ile marrie thee, For while we live, thou shalt my consort be.

Foul.  By France my Lord, I am not griev’d a whit, Since Clarence hath her; he hath bin in Fraunce, And therefore merits her if she were better.

Mom.  Then, Knights, ile knit your happie nuptial knots. 
I know the Ladies minds better then you;
Tho my rare Neece hath chose for vertue only,
Yet some more wise then some, they chuse for both,
Vertue and wealth.

Eug.  Nay, uncle, then I plead This goes with my choise, Some more wise then some, For onely vertues choise is truest wisedome.

Mom.  Take wealth, and vertue both amongst you then,
They love ye, Knights, extreamely; and Sir Cut: 
I give the chast Hippolita to you;
Sir Gyles, this Ladie—­

Pen.  Nay, stay there, my Lord.  I have not yet prov’d all his Knightly parts I heare he is an excellent Poet too.

Tal.  That I forgot sweet Lady; good sir Gyles, Have you no sonnet of your penne about ye?

Goos.  Yes, that I have I hope, my Lord, my Cosen.

Fur.  Why, this is passing fit.

Goos.  I’de be loth to goe without paper about me against my Mistris, hold my worke againe; a man knows not what neede he shall have perhaps.

Mom.  Well remembred a mine honour sir Gyles.

Goos.  Pray read my Lord, I made this sonnet of my Mistris.

Rud.  Nay reade thy selfe, man.

Goos.  No intruth, sir Cut:  I cannot reade mine owne hand.

Mom.  Well I will reade it.
Three things there be which thou shouldst only crave,
Thou Pomroy or thou apple of mine eye;
Three things there be which thou shouldst long to have
And for which three each modest dame wood crie;
Three things there be that shood thine anger swage,
An English mastife and a fine French page.

Rud.  Sblood, Asse, theres but two things, thou shamst thy selfe.