And all the secrets of our camp I'll show,

Their force, their purposes: nay, I'll speak that
Which you will wonder at.

1 Sold.

But wilt thou faithfully?

Acordo linta.

Par. If I do not, kill me. 1 Sold.

Come on, thou art granted space.

[Exit, with PAROLLES guarded.

1 Lord. Go, tell the count Rousillon, and my brother,

We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him

muffled,

Till we do hear from them.

2 Sold.

Captain, I will. 1 Lord. He will betray us all unto ourselves; Inform 'em that.

2 Sold.

So I will, sir.

1 Lord. Till then, I'll keep him dark, and safely

lock'd.

SCENE II.

[Exeunt.

Florence. A Room in the Widow's House.

Enter BERTRAM and DIANA.

Ber. They told me, that your name was Fontibell. Dia. No, my good lord, Diana.

Ber. Titled goddess; And worth it, with addition! But, fair soul, In your fine frame hath love no quality? If the quick fire of youth light not your mind, You are no maiden, but a monument: When you are dead, you should be such a one As you are now, for you are cold and stern; And now you should be as your mother was, Before yourself were born.

No more of that!

My mother did but duty; such, my lord,
As you owe to your wife.

Ber.

I pr'ythee, do not strive against my vows:

I was compell'd to her; but I love thee

By love's own sweet constraint, and will for ever Do thee all rights of service.

Dia. Ay, so you serve us, Till we serve you: but when you have our roses, You barely leave our thorns to wound ourselves, And mock us with our bareness.

Ber.

How have I sworn?

Dia. 'Tis not the many oaths, that make the

truth;

But the plain single vow, that is vow'd true.
What is not holy, that we swear not by,

But take the Highest to witness: Then, pray you, tell me,

If I should swear by Jove's great attributes,
I lov'd you dearly, would you believe my oaths,
When I did love you ill? this has no holding,
To swear by him whom I protest to love,

That I will work against him: Therefore, your

oaths

Are words, and poor conditions; but unseal'd;
At least, in my opinion.

Ber.

Change it, change it;

Be not so holy-cruel: love is holy;

And my integrity ne'er knew the crafts,

That you do charge men with: Stand no more off,
But give thyself unto my sick desires,

Who then recover: say, thou art mine, and ever
My love, as it begins, shall so perséver.

Dia. I see, that men make hopes, in such affairs, That we'll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.

Ber. I'll lend it thee, my dear, but have no power To give it from me.

Dia.

Will you not, my lord? Ber. It is an honour 'longing to our house, Bequeathed down from many ancestors; Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world In me to lose.

Dia.

Mine honour's such a ring:

My chastity's the jewel of our house,
Bequeathed down from many ancestors;
Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world
In me to lose: Thus
your own proper wisdom
Brings in the champion honour on my part,
Against your vain assault.

Ber.

Here, take my ring: My house, mine honour, yea, my life be thine,

And I'll be bid by thee.

Dia. When midnight comes, knock at

ber window;

I'll order take, my mother shall not hear.
Now will I charge you in the band of truth,
Remain then but an hour, nor speak to me:
My reasons are most strong; and you shall know
them,

When back again this ring shall be deliver'd:
And on your finger, in the night, I'll put
Another ring; that, what in time proceeds,
May token to the future our past deeds.
Adieu, till then; then fail not: You have won
A wife of me, though there my hope be done.
Ber. A heaven on earth I have won, by wooing

thee.

[Exit. Dia. For which live long to thank both heaven and me!

You may so in the end.

My mother told me just how he would woo,
As if she sat in his heart; she says, all men
Have the like oaths: he had sworn to marry me,
When his wife's dead; therefore I'll lie with him,

When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid,4
Marry that will, I'll live and die a maid:
Only, in this disguise, I think't no sin
To cozen him, that would unjustly win.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

The Florentine Camp.

Enter the two French Lords, and two or three
Soldiers.

1 Lord. You have not given him his mother's letter?

2 Lord. I have delivered it an hour since: there is something in't that stings his nature; for, on the reading it, he changed almost into another man.

1 Lord. He has much worthy blame laid upon him, for shaking off so good a wife, and so sweet a lady.

2 Lord. Especially he hath incurred the everlasting displeasure of the king, who had even tuned his bounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with

you.

1 Lord. When you have spoken it, 'tis dead, and I am the grave of it.

2 Lord. He hath perverted a young gentlewoman here in Florence, of a most chaste renown; he hath given her his monumental ring, and thinks himself made in the unchaste composition.

1 Lord. Now, heaven delay our rebellion; as we are ourselves, what things are we!

2 Lord. Merely our own traitors. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them re

Crafty, deceitful.

veal themselves, till they attain to their abhorred ends; so he, that in this action contrives against his own nobility, in his proper stream o'erflows himself.

1 Lord. Is it not meant confoundedly in us, to be trumpeters of our unlawful intents? We shall not then have his company to-night?

2 Lord. Not till after midnight.

5

1 Lord. That approaches apace: I would gladly have him see his company anatomized; that he might take a measure of his own judgments, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit.

2 Lord. We will not meddle with him till he for his presence must be the whip of the

come; other.

1 Lord. In the mean time, what hear you of these wars?

2 Lord. I hear, there is an overture of peace.

1 Lord. Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded. 2 Lord. What will count Rousillon do then? will he travel higher, or return again into France?

1 Lord. I perceive, by this demand, you are not altogether of his council.

2 Lord. Let it be forbid, sir! so should I be a great deal of his act.

1 Lord. Sir, his wife, some two months since, fled from his house; her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques le grand; which holy undertaking, with most austere sanctimony, she accomplished: and, there residing, the tenderness of her nature became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last breath, and now she sings in heaven. 2 Lord. How is this justified?

1 Lord. The stronger part of it by her own letter; which makes her story true, even to the point of her death: her death itself, which could not be her office to say, is come, was faithfully confirmed by the rector of the place.

> For companion.