Playes written by the thrice noble, illustrious and excellent princess, the Lady Marchioness of Newcastle.

Scene 13.

Enter Monsieur Profession in mourning; then enters his Friend, Monsieur Comorade.

MOnsieur Comorade.

Well met, I have travelled thorough all the Town, and have inquired of every one I could speak to, and could neither hear of thee, nor see thee.

Profession.

It were happy for me, if I had neither ears nor eyes.

Comorade.

Why, what is the matter, man?

He observes his mourning and then starts.

Gods-me! Now I perceive thou art in mourning: which of thy Friends is dead?

Profession.

The chiefest friend I had, which mas my heart; For that is dead, being kill'd with my Mistress cruelty, and buryed in her incon∣stancy.

Comorade.

I dare swear, not the whole heart; for every mans heart, is like a head of Garlick, which may be divided into many several cloves: Wherefore, cheer up, man; for it is but one clove, that death, or love, hath swallowed down into his Stomach, to cure him of the wind-cholick; and since thy heart hath so many cloves, thou mayst well spare him one, and be never the worse; But if it be buryed, as you say, in your Mistresses incon∣stancy; it is to be hop'd it will be converted into the same inconstant humour, and that will cure the other part of thy heart.

Profession.

O! She was the Saint of my thoughts, and the Goddesse of my soul.

Comorade.

Prethee let me be thy moral Tutor, to instruct thee in the know∣ledge of Truth, and to let thee know, that vertue is the true Goddesse, to which all men ought to bow to; and that youth, beauty and wealth, are sixt to be forsaken, when vertue comes in place; and vertue is constant, both to its principals and promises; Wherefore, if thy Mistresse be inconstant, she cannot be vertuous, wherefore let her go.

Monsieur Profession setches a great sigh, and goes out without speaking a word.

Comorade alone.

Comorade.

I think his heart is dead in good earnest; for it hath no sense of what I have said.

Ex.