MRS ART.  It seems thou hast been in some better plight;
Sit down, I prythee:  men, though they be poor,
Should not be scorn’d; to ease thy hunger, first
Eat these conserves; and now, I prythee, tell me
What thou hast been—­thy fortunes, thy estate,
And what she was that I resemble most?

Y. ART.  First, look that no man see or overhear us: 
I think that shape was born to do me good. [Aside.]

MRS ART.  Hast thou known one that did resemble me?

Y. ART.  Ay, mistress; I cannot choose but weep
To call to mind the fortunes of her youth.

MRS ART.  Tell me, of what estate or birth was she?

Y. ART, Born of good parents, and as well brought up;
Most fair, but not so fair as virtuous;
Happy in all things but her marriage;
Her riotous husband, which I weep to think,
By his lewd life, made them both miscarry.

MRS ART.  Why dost thou grieve at their adversities?

Y. ART.  O, blame me not; that man my kinsman was,
Nearer to me a kinsman could not be;
As near allied was that chaste woman too,
Nearer was never husband to his wife;
He whom I term my friend, no friend of mine,
Proving both mine and his own enemy,
Poison’d his wife—­O, the time he did so! 
Joyed at her death, inhuman slave to do so! 
Exchang’d her love for a base strumpet’s lust;
Foul wretch! accursed villain! to exchange so.

MRS ART.  You are wise and blest, and happy to repent so: 
But what became of him and his new wife?

Y. ART.  O, hear the justice of the highest heaven: 
This strumpet, in reward of all his love,
Pursues him for the death of his first wife;
And now the woful husband languisheth,
And flies abroad,[23] pursu’d by her fierce hate;
And now too late he doth repent his sin,
Ready to perish in his own despair,
Having no means but death to rid his care.

MRS ART.  I can endure no more, but I must weep;
My blabbing tears cannot my counsel keep. [Aside.

Y. ART.  Why weep you, mistress? if you had the heart
Of her whom you resemble in your face—­
But she is dead, and for her death
The sponge of either eye
Shall weep red tears, till every vein is dry.

MRS ART.  Why weep you, friend? your rainy drops pray keep;
Repentance wipes away the drops of sin. 
Yet tell me, friend—­he did exceeding ill,
A wife that lov’d and honour’d him to kill. 
Yet say one like her, far more chaste than fair,
Bids him be of good comfort, not despair. 
Her soul’s appeased with his repentant tears,
Wishing he may survive her many years. 
Fain would I give him money to supply
His present wants, but fearing he should fly,
And getting over to some foreign shore,
These rainy eyes should never see him more. 
My heart is full, I can no longer stay,
But what I am, my love must needs bewray. [Aside. 
Farewell, good fellow, and take this to spend;
Say, one like her commends her to your friend. [Exit.