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a verse or two stolen from a painted cloth:

      The which I hear the wench keeps in her chest.

      MICHAEL

      Why, say I should be took, I’ll ne’er confess,

      That you know anything; and Susan, being a maid,

      May beg me from the gallows of the sheriff.

      ALICE

      Trust not to that, MICHAEL

      MICHAEL

      You cannot tell me, I have seen it, ay,

      I’ll make her more worth than twenty painters can;

      For I will rid mine elder brother away,

      And then the farm of bolton is mine own.

      Who would not venture upon house and land,

      When he may have it for a right down blow? (here enters MOSBIE

      ALICE

      Yonder comes MOSBIE

      Michael, get thee gone,

      And let not him nor any know thy drifts. (Exit MICHAEL

      Mosbie, my love!

      MOSBIE

      Away, I say, and talk not to me now.

      ALICE

      A word or two, sweet heart, and then I will.

      ‘tis yet but early days, thou needst not fear.

      MOSBIE

      Where is your husband?

      ALICE

      ‘tis now high water, and he is at the key.

      MOSBIE

      There let him be; hence forward know me not.

      ALICE

      Is this the end of all thy solemn oaths?

      Is this the fruit thy reconcilement buds?

      Have I for this given thee so many favors,

      Incurred my husband’s hate, and, out alas,

      Made shipwreck of mine honor for thy sake?

      And dost thou say ‘hence forward know me not’?

      Remember, when I lock’d thee in my closet,

      What were thy words and mine; did we not both

      Decree to murder Arden in the night?

      The heavens can witness, and the world can tell,

      Before I saw that falsehood look of thine,

      ‘fore I was tangled with thy ‘ticing speech,

      Arden to me was dearer than my soul,

      And shall be still: base peasant, get thee gone,

      And boast not of thy conquest over me,

      Gotten by witchcraft and mere sorcery!

      For what hast thou to countenance my love,

      Being descended of a noble house,

      And matched already with a gentleman

      Whose servant thou may’st be! - and so farewell.

      MOSBIE

      Ungentle and unkind Alice, now I see

      That which I ever feared, and find too true:

      A woman’s love is as the lightning flame,

      Which even in bursting forth consumes itself.

      To try thy constancy have I been strange;

      Would I had never tried, but lived in hope!

      MOSBIE

      Yet pardon me, for love is jealous.

      ALICE

      So lists the sailor to the mermaid’s song,

      So looks the traveller to the basilisk.

      I am content for to be reconciled,

      And that I know, will be mine overthrow.

      MOSBIE

      Thine overthrow? First let the world dissolve.

      ALICE

      Nay, Mosbie, let me still enjoy thy love,

      And happen what will, I am resolute.

      My saving husband hoards up bags of gold

      To make our children rich, and now is he

      Gone to unload the goods that shall be thine,

      And he and Franklin will to London straight.

      MOSBIE

      To London, Alice? It thou’lt be rul’d by me

      We’ll make him sure enough for coming there.

      ALICE

      Ah, would we could!

      MOSBIE

      I happened on a painter yesternight,

      The only cunning man of Christendom;

      For he can temper poison with his oil,

      That whoso looks upon the work he draws

      Shall, with the beams that issue from his sight,

      Suck venom to his breast and slay himself.

      Sweet Alice he shall draw thy counterfeit,

      That Arden may by gazing on it perish.

      ALICE

      Ay, but Mosbie that is dangerous,

      For thou or i, or any other else,

      Coming into the chamber where it hangs may die.

      MOSBIE

      Ay, but we’ll have it covered with a cloth,

      And hung up in the study for himself.

      ALICE

      It may not be, for when the picture’s drawn,

      Arden, I know, will come and show it me.

      MOSBIE

      Fear not; we’ll have that shall serve the turn.

      This is the painter’s house; I’ll call him forth.

      ALICE

      But Mosbie, I’ll have no such picture, I.

      Use humble promise to their sacred muse,

      So we that are the poets’ favorites

      Must have a love: ay, love is the painter’s muse,

      That makes him frame a speaking countenance,

      A weeping eye that witnesses heart’s grief.

      Then tell me, master Mosbie, shall I have her?

      ALICE

      ‘tis pity but he should; he’ll use her well.

      CLARKE

      Then, brother, to requite this courtesy,

      You shall command my life, my skill, and all.

      ALICE

      Ah, that thou couldst be secret.

      MOSBIE

      Fear him not; leave; I have talked sufficient.

      CLARKE

      You know not me that ask such questions.

      Let it suffice I know you love him well,

      And fain would have your husband made away;

      Wherein,

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