You know this Greene; is he not religious?

A man, I guess, of great devotion?

Alice. He is.

Mosbie. Then, sweet Alice, let it pass: I have a drift 590

590

Will quiet all, whatever is amiss.

[25]

Alice. How now, Clarke? have you found me false?

Did I not plead the matter hard for you?

Clarke. You did.

Mosbie. And what? wilt be a match?

Clarke. A match, i’ faith, sir: ay, the day is mine.

The painter lays his colours to the life,

His pencil draws no shadows in his love.

Susan is mine.

Alice. You make her blush. 600

600

Mosbie. What, sister, is it Clarke must be the man?

Susan. It resteth in your grant; some words are past,

And haply we be grown unto a match,

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