And coming to my Chappell to that end,
Duke Constantine her brother with his Lords
And all our peeres (me thought) attending us,
Forth comes my princelie Katherine led by death,
Who threatening me stood close unto her side,
Urging by those most horrible portents
That wedding her I married mine owne death. 
I, frighted in my sleepe, struggled and sweat,
And in the violence of my thoughts cryed out
So lowde that Hardenberghe awakt and rose. 
Didst thou not Hardenberghe?

Hard.  I felt I did, for never yet (my Lord) Was I in heart and soule so much dismaide.

Alph.  Why thus you see (my Lord) how your delaies Were mightilie and with huge cause enforste.

Amb.  But dreames (my lord) you know growe by the humors
Of the moist night, which, store of vapours lending
Unto our stomaches when we are in sleepe
And to the bodies supreame parts ascending,
Are thence sent back by coldnesse of the braine,
And these present our idle phantasies
With nothing true but what our labouring soules
Without their active organs safelie worke.

Alph.  My lord, know you there are two sorts of dreams,
One sort whereof are onely phisicall,
And such are they whereof your Lordship speakes;
The other Hiper-phisicall, that is
Dreames sent from heaven or from the wicked fiends,
Which nature doth not forme of her owne power
But are extrinsecate, by marvaile wrought;
And such was mine.  Yet, notwithstanding this,
I hope fresh starres will governe in the spring;
And then, assure your princelie friend your maister,
Our promise in all honour shall be kept. 
Returne this answere, Lord Ambassador,
And recommend me to my sacred love.

Amb.  I will, my lord; but how it will be accepted I know not yet; your selfe shall shortly heare.

Alph.  Lords, some of you associate him.—­Ha, ha!

[Exeunt all but Alph. [and Hard.

Hard.  Exceeding well and gravelie good, my lord.

Alph.  Come, lets go and visit my Hianthe, She whose perfections are of power to moove The thoughts of Caesar (did he live) to love.

[Exeunt.

Finis Actus Secundus.

Actus Tertius.

Enter Flores, Cassimeere, Lassing., Lucil., Cor., Han., and Doct.

Ha.  Well, mistr., God give you more joy of your husband then your husband has of you.

Doct.  Fie, too, too bad by my fait.  Vat, my lord? melancholie? and ha de sweete Bride, de faire Bride, de verie fine Bride? o monsieur, one, two, tree, voure, vive, with de brave capra, heigh!

Han.  O the Doctor would make a fine frisking usher in a dauncing schoole.

Doct.  O by garr, you must daunce de brave galliarr.  A pox of dis melancholie!