Ashb.  Heare’s such a handkercher, such letters workt:  Speake them, as I shall reade them.

Pal.  Mirable.

Ashb.  Right! Myrable.

Pal.  Daughter of Jhon Ashburne, merchant.

Ashb.  Trewe:  of Jhon Ashburne merchant—­Oh my sowle!  —­Proceed, prithee proceede.

Pal.  And borne in Christ-chyrch, London, Anno—­

Ashb. 160(?)0.[133]
Oh you Imortall powers.  I stagger yet
Beetwixt despayer and hope, and canott guesse
Which weye my fate will swaye mee; oh speake, speake! 
Thy mothers name?

Pal.  Reade it in sylver letters pleynly wrought In the next Imbrodered Linnen.

Ashb.  If that fayle not I have a firme rock to build upon.—­ The guift of Isabell to her daughter Mirable.—­ Oh frend, oh servant!

Clown.  How is’t, syr?

Fisher.  How now, mayster?

Ashb.  I that so many yeares have been despoyl’d, Neclected, shattered, am made upp againe, Repaired, and new created.

Pal.  Search but further And there’s a golden brooch in it, a diamond, Upon my byrthday geven mee by my father.

Ashb.  I have longe sought and nowe at lengthe have found That diamond, thee my doughter.

Pal.  How, syr?

Ashb.  Shee that so late excluded thee my house
And shutt these gates against thee, Isabell
Thy mother, these weare her owne handyworkes
Bestowde upon thee in thyne infancy
To make us nowe boathe happy in thy yoouth. 
I am Jhon Ashburne marchant, London, Christ Church;
The yeare, place, tyme agree thee to bee myne,
Oh merher [mirror] of thy sex, my Myrable!

Pal.  This surplusadge of joy should not bee forged.

Ashb.  No more than these noates are infalleble.

Pal.  Thus then in all Humility I kneele To you my acknowledgd father.

Ashb.  Ryse, my guerle.

Fisher.  Had I not drawne this leeward out of the sea, where had it bin? all drownd by this.

Ashb.  No triflinge nowe:  post, Godfrey, to my wyfe,
Tell her no more then thou hast heard and seene: 
Shee’s hard of faythe, relate it punctually,
Beare her (oh lett me borrowe them so longe)
These better to confirme her; bid her hast,
And for the truth add these as testimony:—­
Nay, art thou heare still?

Godf.  Lyke a shadowe vanisht, But to returne a substance. [Exit Godfrey.[134]

Ashb.  Oh my deare doughter!—­where’s young Raphael’s man Beare him of all what thou hast seene a perfect And trew relation.

Clowne.  Ay, syr.

Ashb.[135] Bidd him too, All business sett apart, make hether.

Clown.  Ay, syr.

Ashb.  Tell him that his Palestra is my Mirable.