Part 71

Mail. This goes to mine eare well, I promise you.

Chal. O, but tis passing hard to stay one thus.

Cler. Tis so; rancke custome raps men so beyond it. And as tis hard so well mens dores to barre To keepe the cat out and th'adulterer: 30 So tis as hard to curbe affections so Wee let in nought to make them over-flow. And as of Homers verses, many critickes On those stand of which times old moth hath eaten The first or last feete, and the perfect parts 35 Of his unmatched poeme sinke beneath, With upright gasping and sloath dull as death: So the unprofitable things of life, And those we cannot compasse, we affect; All that doth profit and wee have, neglect, 40 Like covetous and basely getting men That, gathering much, use never what they keepe; But for the least they loose, extreamely weepe.

Mail. This prettie talking, and our horses walking Downe this steepe hill, spends time with equall profit. 45

Cler. Tis well bestow'd on ye; meate and men sicke Agree like this and you: and yet even this Is th'end of all skill, power, wealth, all that is.

Chal. I long to heare, sir, how your mistresse takes this.

Enter Aumal with a cabinet.

Mail. Wee soone shall know it; see Aumall return'd. 50

Aumale. Ease to your bands, sir!

Cler. Welcome, worthy friend!

Chal. How tooke his noblest mistresse your sad message?

Aum. As great rich men take sodaine povertie. I never witness'd a more noble love, Nor a more ruthfull sorrow: I well wisht 55 Some other had beene master of my message.

Mail. Y'are happy, sir, in all things, but this one Of your unhappy apprehension.

Cler. This is to mee, compar'd with her much mone, As one teare is to her whole passion. 60

Aum. Sir, shee commends her kindest service to you, And this rich cabinet.

Chal. O happy man! This may enough hold to redeeme your bands.

Cler. These clouds, I doubt not, will be soone blowne over.

Enter Baligny, with his discharge: Renel, and others.

Aum. Your hope is just and happy; see, sir, both 65 In both the looks of these.

Baligny. Here's a discharge For this your prisoner, my good Lord Lieutenant.

Mail. Alas, sir, I usurpe that stile, enforc't, And hope you know it was not my aspiring.

Bal. Well, sir, my wrong aspir'd past all mens hopes. 70

Mail. I sorrow for it, sir.

Renel. You see, sir, there Your prisoners discharge autenticall.

Mail. It is, sir, and I yeeld it him with gladnesse.

Bal. Brother, I brought you downe to much good purpose.

Cler. Repeate not that, sir; the amends makes all. 75

Ren. I joy in it, my best and worthiest friend; O, y'have a princely fautor of the Guise.