Fal.  Part of my selfe, now seemst thou wholy me,
And I seeme neither like my selfe nor thee,
Thankes to thy care and this unknown disguise. 
I like a shepheard now must learn to know,
When to lead foorth my little bleating flock,
To pleasing pastures, and well-fatting walkes;
In stormie time to drive them to the lee;
To cheere the pretie Lambes, whose bleating voice
Doth crave the wished comfort of their dams;
To sound my merry Bag-pipe on the downes,
In shearing times, poore Shepheards festivals;
And lastlie, how to drive the Wolfe away,
That seeke to make the little Lambes their pray.

Allen.  Ah, have you care to drive the Wolfe away
From sillie creatures wanting intellecte,
And yet would suffer your devouring thoughts,
To suck the blood of your dead brothers sonne! 
As pure and innocent as any Lambe
Pertillo was, which you have fed upon. 
But things past helpe may better be bewaild
With carefull teares, then finde a remedie;
Therefore, for feare our practise be espide,
Let us to question of our husbandrie. 
How many Lambes fell from the middle flock,
Since I myselfe did take the latter view?

    Enter Vesuvio, Turqual, Alberto.

Fall.  Some vive and twenty, whereof two are dead.  But three and twenty scud about the fields, That glads my hart to ze their iollitie.

Vesu.  This is the man, conferring of his Lambes, That slew a Lambe worth all his flock besides.

Allen.  What is the time to let the Weathers blood?  The forward spring, that hath such store of grasse, Hath fild them full of ranke unwholsome blood, Which must be purg’d; else, when the winter comes, The rot will leave me nothing but their skinnes.

Fall.  Chil let om blood, but yet it is no time, Untill the zygne be gone below the hart.[41]

Vesu.  Forbeare a while this idle businesse, And talke of matters of more consequence.

Fall.  Che tell you plaine, you are no honest man,
To call a shepheards care an idle toye. 
What though we have a little merry sport
With flowrie gyrlonds, and an Oaten pipe,
And jolly friskins on a holly-day,
Yet is a shepheards cure a greater carke
Then sweating Plough-men with their busie warke.

Vesu.  Hence! leave your sheepish ceremoniall!—­
And now, Fallerio, in the Princes name,
I do arrest you, for the cruell murther
Of young Pertillo, left unto your charge,
Which you discharged with a bloody writ,
Sign’d by the hands of those you did suborne. 
Nay, looke not strange, we have such evidence,
To ratifie your Stigian cruelty,
That cannot be deluded any way.

Allen.  Alas, my Lords, I know not what you say!  As for my Nephew, he, I hope, is well:  I sent him yesterday to Padua.