Fall.  Mas, thou saiest true, a cannot punish thee;
Thou wert no actor of their Tragaedie. 
But for my beard thou canst not counterfet
And bring gray haires uppon thy downy chinne;
White frostes are never seene in summers spring.

Allen.  I bought a beard this day at Padua,
Such as our common actors use to weare
When youth would put on ages countenance;
So like in shape, in colour, and in all,
To that which growes upon your aged face,
That were I dressed in your abilimentes,
Your selfe would scarcely know me from your selfe.

Fall.  That’s excellent.  What shape hast thou devis’d, To be my vizard to delude the worlde?

Allen.  Why thus:  ile presentlie shave off your haire,
And dresse you in a lowlie shepheardes weede;
Then you will seeme to have the carefull charge
Of some wealth-bringing, rich, and fleecy flocke,
And so passe currant from suspition.

Fall.  This care of thine, my sonne, doth testifie,
Nature in thee hath firme predominance,
That neither losse of friend, nor vile reproch,
Can shake thee with their strongest violence: 
In this disguise, ile see the end of thee,
That thou, acquited, then maist succour me.

Allen.  I am assur’d to be exempt from woe:—­ This plot will worke my certaine overthrowe. [(To the) People.

Fall.  I will beare hence thy mother, and my wife, Untimely murthered with true sorrowes knife. [Exit.

Allen.  Untimely murthered! happy was that griefe,
Which hath abridg’d whole numbers numberlesse
Of hart-surcharging deplorations. 
She shall have due and Christian funerall,
And rest in peace amongst her auncestors. 
As for our bodies, they shall be inter’d,
In ravening mawes, of Ravens, Puttockes, Crowes,
Of tatlin[g] Magpies, and deathes harbingers,
That wilbe glutted with winde-shaken limmes
Of blood-delighting hatefull murtherers. 
And yet these many winged sepulchers,
Shall turne to earth, so I and father shall,
At last attaine to earth by funerall. 
Well I will prosecute my pollicy,
That wished death may end my miseries.

[Exit.

[SCENE VII.]

Enter Cowley and Williams.

Cow.  Still in your dumpes, good Harry? yet at last,
Utter your motive of this heavinesse. 
Why go you not unto your maisters house? 
What, are you parted? if that be the cause,
I will provide you of a better place.

Wil.  Who roves all day, at length may hit the marke; That is the cause,—­because I cannot stay With him whose love is dearer then my life.

Cow.  Why fell you out? why did you part so soone?

Wil.  We fell not out, but feare hath parted us.

Cow.  What, did he feare your truth or honest life?