The jealous lovers A comedie presented to their gracious Majesties at Cambridge, by the students of Trinity-Colledge. Written by Thomas Randolph, Master of Arts, and fellow of the house.

SCEN. VII.

Simo, Thrasymachus, Hyperbolus, Chaerilus, Bomolochus, Phryne, Asotus.

Asot.

NOw am I Oberon prince of Fairy land, And Phryne shall be Mab my Empresse fair: My souldiers two I'le instantly transform To Will-with-a-wisp, and Robin-goodfellow, And make my brace of Poets transmigrate Into Pigwiggin and Sir Peppercorn. It were a prety whimsy now to counterfeit That I were jealous of my Phrynes love. The humour would be excellent, and become me

Better then either Tyndarus or Techmessa. Thus will I walk as one in deadly dumps.

Sim.

When shall we marry?

Phryn.

I can hardly stay Till morning.

Asot.

O what Fury shot A viper through my soul! Here Love with twenty bows And twenty thousand arrows layes his siege To my poore heart.— O Phryne, Phryne! I have no cause why to suspect thy love. But if all this be cunning, as who knows! Away foul sinne. O eyes, what mischief do you see!

Ball.

O, I could burst with laughter. Here will be A prety scene of mirth.

Sim.

Thou dost not love me. My boy Asotus, my young sprightly boy Has stoln thy heart away.

Phryn.

He? a poore mushrum! Your boy? I should have guess'd him for your father. He has a skin as wrinckled as a Tortoyse. I have mista'ne him often for a hedge-hog Crept out on's skin. Pray keep the fool at home.

Asot.

Patience go live with cuckolds. I defie thee. Villain, rogue, traitour, do not touch my deare So to unsanctifie her tender skin, Nor cast a goatish eye upon a hair, To make that little threed of gold profaned, Or gaze but on her shoe-string that springs up A reall rose, from vertue of her foot, To blast the odours: grim-fac'd death shall hurry thee To Styx, Cocytus, and fell Phlegethon.

Sim.

Asotus, good Asotus, I am thy father.

Asot.

I no Asotusam, nor thou my fire, But angry and incensed Oberon.

Sim.

All that I have is thine, though I could vie For every silver hair upon my head A piece in gold.—

Asot.

I should send you to the barbours.

Sim.

All, all is thine: let me but share A little in thy pleasures: onely relish The sweetnesse of 'um.

Asot.

No, I will not have Two spenders in a house, Go you and revell,

I will go home and live a drudges life, As you ha' done, to scrape up pelf together: And then forsweare all Tutours, Souldiers, Poets, Women, and wine. I will forget to eat, And starve my self to the bignesse of a polecat. I will disclaim his faith that can beleeve There is a Taverne, or a Religious place For holy Nunnes that vow incontinence, And have their beads to sin by. — Get you home. You kisse a Gentlewoman to endanger Your chattering teeth? — Go, you have done your share In getting me: to furnish the next age Must be my province. Go, look you to yours. Lie with your mustie bags, and get more gold. S'lid, anger me, and I'le turn drudge for certain.

Sim.

Asotus, good Asotus pardon me.

Asot.

I wonder you are not asham'd to ask pardon.

Sim.

It was the dotage of my age, Asotus.

Asot.

Who bid you live untill this age of dotage?

Sim.

I will abjure all pleasures but in thee.

Asot.

This something qualifies.

Sim.

It shall be my sport To maintain thine. Thou shalt eat for both, And drink for both.—

Asot.

Good: this will qualifie more.

Sim.

And here I promise thee to make a joynture Of half the land I have to this fair Lady.

Asot.

This qualifies all. You have your pardon, Sir! But heare you, Sir, it must be paid for too. To morrow Mab I thee mine Empresse crown.

Ball.

All friends. A merry cup go round, What? Captains And Poets here, and leave the sack for flies?