Clod.  Away, away fool, why dost thou proclame these To prevent that in me, thou hast chosen in another?

Zen.  Him I have chosen, I can rule and master,
Temper to what I please, you are a great one
Of a strong will to bend, I dare not venture. 
Be wise my Lord, and say you were well counsel’d,
Take mony for my ransom, and forget me,
’Twill be both safe, and noble for your honour,
And wheresoever my fortunes shall conduct me,
So worthy mentions I shall render of you,
So vertuous and so fair.

Clod.  You will not marrie me?

Zen.  I do beseech your honour, be not angry At what I say, I cannot love ye, dare not; But set a ransom, for the flowr you covet.

Clod.  No mony, nor no prayers, shall redeem that, Not all the art you have.

Zen.  Set your own price Sir.

Clod.  Goe to your wedding, never kneel to me, When that’s done, you are mine, I will enjoy you:  Your tears do nothing, I will not lose my custom To cast upon my self an Empires fortune.

Zen.  My mind shall not pay this custom, cruel man. [Ex.

Clod.  Your body will content me:  I’le look for you. [Ex.

Enter Charino, and servants in blacks.  Covering the place with blacks.

Char.  Strew all your withered flowers, your Autumn sweets By the hot Sun ravisht of bud and beauty Thus round about her Bride-bed, hang those blacks there The emblemes of her honour lost; all joy That leads a Virgin to receive her lover, Keep from this place, all fellow-maids that bless her, And blushing do unloose her Zone, keep from her:  No merry noise nor lusty songs be heard here, Nor full cups crown’d with wine make the rooms giddy, This is no masque of mirth, but murdered honour.  Sing mournfully that sad Epithalamion I gave thee now:  and prethee let thy lute weep.

Song, Dance. Enter Rutilio.

Rut.  How now, what livery’s this? do you call this a wedding?  This is more like a funeral.

Char.  It is one, And my poor Daughter going to her grave, To his most loath’d embraces that gapes for her.  Make the Earles bed readie, is the marriage done Sir?

Rut.  Yes they are knit; but must this slubberdegullion Have her maiden-head now?

[Char.] There’s no avoiding it.

Rut.  And there’s the scaffold where she must lose it.

[Char.] The bed Sir.

Rut.  No way to wipe his mouldy chaps?

Char.  That we know.

Rut.  To any honest well-deserving fellow, And ’twere but to a merry Cobbler, I could sit still now, I love the game so well; but that this puckfist, This universal rutter—­fare ye well Sir; And if you have any good prayers, put ’em forward, There may be yet a remedie.

Char.  I wish it, [Exit Rut.  And all my best devotions offer to it.