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The play may pass, if they be still and willing,

I'll undertake may see away their shilling
Richly in two short hours. Only they
That come to hear a merry bawdy play,
A noise of targets, or to see a fellow

In a long motley coat guarded with yellow,
Will be deceived; for, gentle hearers, know,
To rank our chosen truth with such a show
As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting

Our own brains and the opinion that we bring
To make that only true we now intend,
Will leave us never an understanding friend.
Therefore, for goodness' sake, and as you
are known

The first and happiest hearers of the town,
Be sad, as we would make ye: think ye see
The very persons of our noble story

As they were living; think you see them great,

And follow'd with the general throng and sweat

Of thousand friends; then, in a moment, see
How soon this mightiness meets misery:
And if you can be merry then, I'll say
A man may weep upon his wedding-day.

ACT I.

SCENE I. London.

An ante-chamber in

the palace.

Enter the DUKE of NORFOLK at one door; at the other, the DUKE of BUCKINGHAM and the LORD ABERGAVENNY.

Buck. Good morrow, and well met. How have ye done

Since last we saw in France?

Nor.

I thank your grace,

Healthful, and ever since a fresh admirer

Of what I saw there.

Buck.

An untimely ague

Stay'd me a prisoner in my chamber, when Those suns of glory, those two lights of men, Met in the vale of Andren.

Nor.

"Twixt Guynes and Arde:

I was then present, saw them salute on

horseback;

Beheld them, when they 'lighted, how they

clung

In their embracement, as they grew to

gether;

Which had they, what four throned ones could have weigh'd

Such a compounded one?

Buck.

All the whole time

I was my chamber's prisoner.

Nor. Then you lost The view of earthly glory: men might say, Till this time pomp was single, but now married

To one above itself. Each following day Became the next day's master, till the last Made former wonders its. To-day the French,

All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods, Shone down the English; and to-morrow they

Made Britain India: every man that stood Show'd like a mine. Their dwarfish pages

were

As cherubins, all gilt: the madams too,
Not used to toil, did almost sweat to bear
The pride upon them, that their very labour

Was to them as a painting: now this

masque

Was cried incomparable; and the ensuing night

Made it a fool and beggar. The two kings, Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst, As presence did present them; him in eye Still him in praise; and being present both, 'Twas said they saw but one, and no dis

cerner

Durst wag his tongue in censure. When these suns

For so they phrase 'em-by their heralds challenged

The noble spirits to arms, they did perform Beyond thought's compass; that former fabulous story,

Being now seen possible enough, got credit, That Bevis was believed.

Buck.

O, you go far.

Nor. As I belong to worship, and affect In honour honesty, the tract of every thing Would by a good discourser lose some life, Which action's self was tongue to. All was royal;

To the disposing of it nought rebell'd;

Order gave each thing view; the office did Distinctly his full function.

Buck.

Who did guide,

I mean, who set the body and the limbs Of this great sport together, as you guess?

Nor.

One, certes, that promises no ele

ment

In such a business.

Buck.

I pray you, who, my lord? Nor. All this was order'd by the good

discretion

Of the right reverend Cardinal of York. Buck. The devil speed him! no man's pie is freed

From his ambitious finger. What had he
To do in these fierce vanities? I wonder
That such a keech can with his very bulk
Take up the rays o' the beneficial sun,
And keep it from the earth.

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