We are rowl'd up upon the Venice marsh,

Lets clip all fortune, least more lowring fate.

And. More lowring fate? O Lucio, choak that breath. Now I defy chance. Fortunes browe hath frown'd, Even to the utmost wrinkle it can bend:

What sonne,

Her venom's spit. Alas, what country rests,
what comfort that she can deprive ?
Tryumphes not Venice in my overthrow?
Gapes not my native country for my blood?

Lies not my sonne tomb'd in the swelling maine?
And yet more lowring fate? There's nothing left
Unto Andrugio, but Andrugio:

And that nor mischief, force, distresse, nor hel can take,
Fortune my fortunes, not my minde shall shake.

Lu. Speake like your selfe; but give me leave, my Lord, To wish your safetie. If you are but seene,

Your armes display you; therefore put them off,
And take

[foes?

And. Would'st thou have me go unarm'd among my Being besieg'd by passion, entring lists,

To combat with despaire and mightie griefe:

My soule beleaguerd with the crushing strength
Of sharpe impatience. Ha Lucio, goe unarm❜d?
Come soule, resume the valour of thy birth;
My selfe, my selfe will dare all opposits:
Ile muster forces, an unvanquisht power:

Cornets of horse shall presse th' ungratefull earth;
This hollow wombed masse shall inly grone.
And murmur to sustaine the waight of armes :
Gastly amazement, with upstarted haire,
Shall hurry on before, and usher us,

Whil'st trumpets clamour, with a sound of death.

Lu. Peace, good, my Lord, your speach is al too light. Alas, survey your fortunes, looke what's left

Of all your forces, and your utmost hopes?
A weake old man, a Page, and your poor selfe.
And. Andrugio lives, and a faire cause of armes,-
Why that's an armie all invincible!

He who hath that, hath a battalion

Royal, armour of proofe, huge troups of barbed steeds,
Maine squares of pikes, millions of harguebush.

O, a faire cause stands firme, and will abide.
Legions of Angels fight upon her side.

Lu. Then, noble spirit, slide, in strange disguise,
Unto some gratious Prince, and sojourne there,
Till time and fortune give revenge firme meanes.
And. No, Ile not trust the honour of a man,
Golde is growne great, and makes perfidiousnesse
A common water in most princes courts:

He's in the Chekle-roule: Ile not trust my blood;
I know none breathing, but will cogge a dye

For twentie thousand double pistolets.

How goes the time?

Lu. I saw no sunne to day.

And. No sun wil shine, where poor Andrugio breaths : My soule growes heavie: boy, let's have a song: Weele sing yet, faith, even despite of fate.

CANTANT.

And. Tis a good boy, and by my troth, well sung.

O, and thou felt'st my griefe, I warrant thee,

Thou would'st have strook division to the height,

And made the life of musicke breath: hold, boy: why so? For Gods sake call me not Andrugio,

That I may soone forget what I have bin.

For heavens name, name not Antonio,
That I may not remember he was mine.
Well, ere yon sunne set, Ile shew myselfe myselfe,
Worthy my blood. I was a Duke ; that's all.
No matter whether, but from whence we fall.

¶ Enter FELICHE walking, unbrac't.

Feli. Castilio? Alberto? Balurdo? none up? Forobosco? Flattery, nor thou up yet:

[Exeunt.

Then there's no courtier stirring: that's firme truth ?

I cannot sleepe: Feliche seldome rests

In these court lodgings. I have walkt all night,
To see if the nocturnall court delights

Could force me envie their felicitie:

And by plaine troth; I will confesse plaine troth:
I envie nothing, but the Travense light.

O, had it eyes, and eares, and tongues, it might
See sport, heare speach of most strange surquedries.
O, if that candle-light were made a Poet,
He would proove a rare firking Satyrist,
And drawe the core forth of impostum'd sin.
Well, I thanke heaven yet, that my content
Can envie nothing, but poore candle-light.
As for the other glistering copper spangs,
That glisten in the tyer of the Court,
Praise God, I eyther hate, or pittie them.
Well, here ile sleepe till that the sceane of up
Is past at Court. O calme husht rich content,

Is there a being blessednesse without thee?

How soft thou down'st the couch where thou dost rest,-Nectar to life, thou sweet Ambrosian feast.

Enter CASTILIO and his Page: CASTILIO with a casting bottle of sweete water in his hand, sprinkling himselfe. Cast. Am not I a most sweete youth now?

Cat. Yes, when your throat's perfum'd; your verie words Doe smell of ambergreece. O stay, sir, stay; Sprinkle some sweete water to your shooes heeles, That your mistresse may swear you have a sweet foot. Cast. Good, very good, very passing passing good. Feli. Fut, what trebble minikin squeaks there? ha? good? very good, very very good?

Cast. I will warble to the delicious concave of my Mistresse eare and strike her thoughts with

The pleasing touch of my voice.

CANTANT.

Cast. Feliche, health, fortune, mirth, and wine.

Feli. To thee my love divine.

Cast. I drinke to thee, sweeting.

Feli. Plague on thee for an asse!

Cast. Now thou hast seene the court; by the perfec

tion of it, dost not envie it?

Feli. I wonder it doth not envie me.

Why, man, I have bene borne upon the spirits wings,
The soules swift Pegasus, the fantasie :

And from the height of contemplation,

Have view'd the feeble joynts men totter on.

I envie none; but hate, or pittie all.

For when I viewe, with an intentive thought,
That creature faire, but proud: him rich, but sot:
Th'other wittie, but unmeasured arrogant :
Him great, yet boundlesse in ambition :

Him high borne, but of base life: to'ther feard;
Yet feared feares, and fears most, to be most loved :
Him wise, but made a foole for publick use:
Th'other learned, but selfe-opinionate:

When I discourse all these, and see my selfe
Nor faire, nor rich, nor wittie, great, nor fear'd,
Yet amply suted with all full content,

Lord, how I clap my hands, and smooth my brow,
Rubbing my quiet bosome, tossing up

A gratefull spirit to Omnipotence!

Cast. Ha, ha: but if thou knew'st my happinesse,
Thou wouldst even grate away thy soule to dust,
In envy of my sweete beatitude:

I can not sleepe for kisses; I can not rest
For ladies letters, that importune me

With such unused vehemence of love,

Straight to solicit them, that

Feli. Confusion seize me, but I thinke thou lyest.
Why should I not be sought to then as wel?
Fut, me thinks I am as like a man.

Troth, I have a good head of haire, a cheeke
Not as yet wan'd; a legge, faith, in the full.
I ha not a red beard, take not tobacco much :
And S'lid, for other parts of manlinesse—

pompe :

Cast. Pew waw, you nere accorted them in
Put your good parts in presence, gratiously.
Ha, and you had, why, they would ha come of, sprung
Το your armes; and su'd, and prai'd, and vow'd;
And opened all their sweetnesse to your love.

Feli. There are a number of such things, as then
Have often urg'd me to such loose beliefe:
But S'lid, you all doe lye, you all doe lie.