SCENE III.
ALass! Poor Prince, I protest the Violence of his Passion has cast him in a Fever, he dies of it—And how then? shall I Marry the Princess of Cleve, or stick to Marguerite as we are? for 'tis most certain she has rare things in her, which I found by my last Experiment, and I love her more than ever, almost to Jealousie; be∣sides Tournon tells me, the Dauphin begins to buz about her agen, and who knows but in this heat of hers, as she says, she will hang her self out to sale, but he may nick the time and buy her—I like not that— No, I'll throw boldly, clear the Table if I can, if not, 'tis but at last forswearing Play, shake off my new acquaintance, and be easie with my reserve—Heark, I am just upon the Bower Musick—
I have hitherto obey'd my Master's order, but I'm resolv'd to dog him till he's lodg'd—
Now do I know the Precise will call me damn'd Rogue for wrong∣ing my Friend, especially such a soft sweet natur'd Friend as this gentle Prince—Verily I say they lye in their Throats, were the gravest of 'em in my condition, and thought it shou'd never be known, they wou'd rouze up the Spirit, cast the dapper Cloak, leave off their humming and haing, and fall too like a Man of Honour.
I'll face him till he enters the Bower, and then call my Lord.