The Tragedye of M.Arden
Here enters Clarke.
Clark.
Why sir ile do it for you at any time,
Prouided as you haue giuen your worde,
I may haue Susan Mosbie to my wife:
For as sharpe witted Poets, whose sweete verse
Make heauenly gods break of their Nector draughts,
And lay their eares down to the lowly earth:
Use humble promise to their sacred Muse,
So we that are the Poets fauorits,
Must haue a loue, I, Loue is the Painters Muse.
That makes him frame a speaking countenaunce.
A weeping eye that witnesses hartes griefe,
Then tell me Master Mosbie shall I haue hir?
Ales.
Tis pittie but he should, heele vse her well.
Mosbie
Clarke heers my hand my sister shall be thine,
Cla.
Then brother to requite this curtesie,
You shall command my lyfe my skill and all.
Ales.
Ah that thou couldst be secret,
Mosbie.
Feare him not, leaue, I haue talkt sufficient,
Cla.
You know not me, that ask such questions:
Let it suffice, I know you loue him well,
And faine would haue your husband made away:
Wherein trust me you shew a noble minde,
That rather then youle liue with him you hate,
Youle venture lyfe, and die with him you loue,
The like will I do for my Susans sake.
Ales.
Yet nothing could inforce me to the deed,
But Mosbies loue, might I without controll,
Inioy thee still, then Arden should not die:
But seeing I cannot, therefore let him die.
Mos.
Enough sweete Ales, thy kinde words makes me melt,
Your tricke of poysoned pictures we dislyke,
Some other poyson would do better farre.
Ales.
I such as might be put into his broth,
And yet in taste not to be found at all.
