For, as sharp-witted poets, whose sweet verse

Make heavenly gods break off their nectar draughts

And lay their ears down to the lowly earth,

Use humble promise to their sacred Muse,

So we that are the poets’ favourites

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? 260

260

Alice. ’Tis pity but he should; he’ll use her well.

Mosbie. Clarke, here’s my hand: my sister shall be thine.

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

[12]

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:

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