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I’ll hive him up a while,

      And after smother him to have his wax:

      Such bees as Greene must never live to sting.

      Then is there Michael and the painter too,

      Chief actors to Arden’s overthrow;

      They will insult upon me for my meed,

      Or fright me by detecting of his end.

      I’ll none of that, for I can cast a bone

      To make these curs pluck out each other’s throat,

      And then am I sole ruler of mine own.

      Yet mistress Arden lives; but she’s my self,

      And holy church rites makes us two but one.

      But what for that? I may not trust you, Alice,

      You have supplanted Arden for my sake,

      And will extirpen me to plant another.

      ‘tis fearful sleeping in a serpent’s bed,

      And I will cleanly rid my hands of her.

      (here enters ALICE

      But here she comes, and I must flatter her.

       how now, Alice? What, sad and passionate?

      Make me partaker of thy pensiveness:

      Fire divided burns with lesser force.

      ALICE

      But I will dam that fire in my breast

      Till by the force thereof my part consume, ah, Mosbie!

      MOSBIE

      Such deep pathaires, like to a cannon’s burst

      Discharged against a ruinated wall,

      Breaks my relenting heart in thousand pieces.

      Ungentle Alice, thy sorrow is my sore;

      Thou know’st it well, and ‘tis thy policy

      To forge distressful looks to wound a breast

      Where lies a heart that dies when thou art sad.

      It is not love that loves to anger love.

      ALICE

      It is not love that loves to murder love.

      MOSBIE

      How mean you that?

      ALICE

      Thou knowest how dearly Arden loved me.

      MOSBIE

      And then?

      ALICE

      And then - conceal the rest, for ‘tis too bad,

      Lest that my words be carried with the wind,

      And published in the world to both our shames.

      I pray thee, Mosbie, let our springtime wither;

      Our harvest else will yield but loathsome weeds.

      Forget, I pray thee, what hath passes betwixt us,

      For now I blush and tremble at the thoughts!

      MOSBIE

      What? Are you changed?

      ALICE

      Ay, to my former happy life again,

      From title of an odious strumpet’s name

      To honest Arden’s wife, not Arden’s honest wife.

      And made me slanderous to all my kin;

      Even in my forehead is thy name ingraven,

      A mean artificer, that low born name.

      I was bewitched: woe worth the hapless hour

      And all the causes that enchanted me!

      MOSBIE

      Nay, if thou ban, let me breathe curses forth,

      And if you stand so nicely at your fame,

      Let me repent the credit I have lost.

      And thou unhallowed hast enchanted me.

      But I will break thy spells and exorcisms,

      And put another sight upon these eyes

      That showed my heart a raven for a dove.

      Thou art not fair, I viewed thee not till now;

      Thou art not kind, till now I knew thee not;

      And now the rain hath beaten off thy gilt,

      Thy worthless copper shows thee counterfeit.

      It grieves me not to see how foul thou art,

      But mads me that ever I thought thee fair.

      Go, get thee gone, a copesmate for thy hinds;

      I am too good to be thy favorite.

      ALICE

      Ay, now I see, and too soon find it true,

      Which often hath been told me by my friends,

      That Mosbie loves me not but for my wealth,

      Which, too incredulous, I ne’er believed.

      Nay, hear me speak, Mosbie, a word or two;

      I’ll bite my tongue if it speak bitterly.

      Look on me, Mosbie, or I’ll kill myself:

      Nothing shall hide me from thy stormy look,

      If thou cry war, there is no peace for me;

      I will do penance for offending thee,

      And burn this prayer book, where I here use

      The holy word that had converted me.

      See, Mosbie, I will tear away the leaves,

      And all the leaves, and in this golden cover

      Shall thy sweet phrases and thy letters dwell;

      And thereon will I chiefly meditate,

      And hold no other sect but such devotion.

      Wilt thou not look? Is all thy love o’erwhelmed?

      Wilt thou not hear? What malice stops thine ears?

      Why speaks thou not? What silence ties thy tongue?

      Thou hast been sighted as the eagle is,

      And heard as quickly as the fearful hare,

      When I have bid thee hear or see or speak,

      And art thou sensible in none of these?

      Weigh all thy good turns with this little fault,

      And I deserve not Mosbie’s muddy looks.

      A font once troubled is not thickened still:

      Be clear again, I’ll ne’er more trouble thee.

      MOSBIE

      O no, I am a base artificer:

      My wings are feathered for a lowly flight.

      Mosbie? Fie! No, not for a thousand pound.

      Make love to you? Why, ‘tis unpardonable;

      We beggars must not breathe where gentles are.

      ALICE

      Sweet Mosbie is as gentle as a king,

      And I too blind to judge him otherwise.

      Flowers do sometimes spring in fallow lands,

      Weeds in gArdens, roses grow on thorns;

      So,

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