Fern. Good sir, you bind me to you; is this all? D'Av. I beseech your ear a little; good my lord, what I have to speak, concerns your reputation and best fortune.

Fern. How's that! my reputation? lay aside Superfluous ceremony; speak, what is it?

D'Av. I do repute myself the blessedest man alive, that I shall be the first gives your lordship news of your perpetual comfort.

Fern. As how?

D'Av. If singular beauty, unimitable virtues, honour, youth, and absolute goodness be a fortune, all those are at once offered to your particular choice.

Fern. Without delays, which way?

D'Av. The great and gracious lady Fiormonda loves you, infinitely loves you.-But, my lord, as ever you tendered a servant to your pleasures, let me not be revealed, that I gave you notice on't.

Fern. Sure you are strangely out of tune, sir. D'Av. Please but to speak to her; be but courtly ceremonious with her, use once but the language of affection, if I misreport ought besides my knowledge, let me never have place in your good opinion. Oh, these women, my lord, are as brittle metal as your glasses, as smooth, as slippery,-their very first substance was quicksands: let them look never so de

7 Their very first substance was quicksands.] This is said in allusion to the traditionary stories of the first discovery of glass by the Phoenician mariners, in consequence of their lighting a fire on the sand.

murely, one fillip chokes them. My lord, she loves you; I know it. But I beseech your lordship not to discover me; I would not for the world she should know that you know it by me. Fern. I understand you, and to thank your care, Will study to requite it; and I vow

She never shall have notice of your news
By me, or by my means. And, worthy sir,
Let me alike enjoin you not to speak

A word of that I understand her love;
And as for me, my word shall be your surety,
I'll not as much as give her cause to think
I ever heard it.

D'Av. Nay, my lord, whatsoever I infer, you may break with her in it, if you please; for, rather than silence should hinder you one step to such a fortune, I will expose myself to any rebuke for your sake, my good lord.

Fern. You shall not, indeed, sir; I am still your friend, and will prove so; for the present I am forced to attend the duke. Good hours befall you! I must leave you. [Exit.

D'Av. Gone already? 'sfoot, I have marr'd all! this is worse and worse; he's as cold as hemlock. If her highness knows how I have gone to work, she'll thank me scurvily. A pox of all dull brains! I took the clean contrary course: there is a mystery in this slight carelessness of his; I must sift it, and I will find it. Uds me, fool myself out of my wit! well, I'll choose some fitter opportunity to inveigle him, and, till then, smooth her up that he is a man overjoyed with the report. [Exit.

SCENE II.

Another Room in the same.

Enter FERENTES and COLONA.

Fer. Madam, by this light I vow myself your servant; only yours, inespecially yours. Time, like a turn-coat, may order and disorder the outward fashions of our bodies, but shall never enforce a change on the constancy of my mind. Sweet Colona, fair Colona, young and sprightful lady, do not let me, in the best of my youth, languish in my earnest affections.

Col. Why should you seek, my lord, to purchase glory,

By the disgrace[s] of a silly maid?

Fer. That I confess too. I am every way so unworthy of the first fruits of thy embraces, so far beneath the riches of thy merit, that it can be no honour to thy fame, to rank me in the number of thy servants; yet prove me how true, how firm I will stand to thy pleasures, to thy command; and, as time shall serve, be ever thine. Now prithee, dear Colona

Col. Well, well, my lord, I have no heart of flint;

Or if I had, you know by cunning words

How to outwear it :-but

Fer. But what? do not pity thy own gentleness, lovely Colona. Shall I? Speak, shall I?— say but aye, and our wishes are made up.

· Col. How shall I say aye, when my fears say

no?

Fer. You will not fail to meet [me] two hours hence, sweet?

Col. No;

Yes, yes, I would have said; how my tongue trips!

Fer. I take that promise, and that double yes as an assurance of thy faith. In the grove; good, sweet, remember; in any case alone,-do you mark, love?-—not as much as your duchess' little dog;-you'll not forget?-two hours hence-think on't, and miss not: till then

Col. Oh, if you should prove false, and love another!

Fer. Defy me then! I'll be all thine, and a servant only to thee; only to thee. [Exit COLONA.]— Very passing good! three honest women in our courts here of Italy, are enough to discredit a whole nation of that sex. He that is not a cuckold or a bastard is a strangely happy man; for a chaste wife, or a mother that never stept awry, are wonders, wonders in Italy. 'Slife! I have got the feat on't, and am every day more active in my trade; 'tis a sweet sin this slip of mortality, and I have tasted enough for one passion of my senses. Here comes more work for me.

Enter JULIA.

And how does mine own Julia? Mew upon this sadness! what's the matter you are melancholy?— Whither away, wench?

Jul. 'Tis well; the time has been when your smooth tongue

Would not have mock'd my griefs; and had I been More chary of mine own honour, you had still Been lowly as you were.

Fer. Lowly? why I am sure I cannot be much more lowly than I am to thee; thou bring'st me on my bare knees, wench, twice in every fourand-twenty hours, besides half turns instead of bevers. What must we next do, sweetheart?

8

Jul. Break vows on your side, I expect no other;

But every day look when some newer choice
May violate your honour and my trust.

Fer. Indeed, forsooth! how say you by that, la? I hope I neglect no opportunity to your nunquam satis, to be call'd in question for. Go, thou art as fretting as an old grogram;1 by this hand I love you for't; it becomes thee so prettily to be angry: well, if thou should'st die, farewell all love with me for ever! go, I'll meet thee soon in thy lady's back-lobby, I will, wench; look for

me.

Jul. But shall I be resolved you will be mine?

Bevers.] A slight intermediate repast between breakfast and dinner; or, sometimes, between dinner and the undermele.

I

"

How say you by that, la!] A colloquial expression, common in our old dramatists, for "what do you mean by that.' There is a slight error in the old copy, which, for say ye, reads shey. thou art as fretting as an old grogram.] A coarse kind of silk taffety, usually stiffened with gum, and peculiarly liable, after some wearing, to fret and lose its gloss. It is often alluded to by our old writers.