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

Scene 43.

Enter Roger Trusty to his Lady all in a sweat with running: she seeing him come in such haste, cries out.

HYpocondria.

O help me, help me, you merciful Powers, to destroy me, and let me not outlive my Husband.

Trusty.

'Tis like the Gods will hear your prayers: for ten to one my Ma∣ster out-lives you.

Hypocon.

VVhy, is he alive?

Trusty.

Yes, and alive's like.

Hypocon.

VVhat makes you sweat so?

Trusty.

To bring you the good news of his well-being, and to prove the old Proverb a Lyar, which sayes, Bad Newes hath wings, and good Newes no legs.

Hypocon.

Where did you meet your Master?

Trusty.

In Westminster-Hall.

Hypocon.

How did he look?

Trusty.

Healthful and well.

Hypocon.

Did he seem angry or pleas'd, merry or sad?

Trusty.

Why he neither seem'd angry nor pleas'd, merry nor sad, which I wonder'd at: for in Lawyers Courts, and places of Judicature, I never saw any face but was cloathed with a merry green countenance, or a sad black countenance, or a red cholerick face, or a pale malicious face; but my Masters face appeared like naked Truth, and clean Temperance, wash'd white with Innocency; being plump with health, and smooth with plenty.

Hypocon.

But why did you leave him?

Trusty.

VVhy he commanded me so to doe, and to run every step, to tell you he was comming home, and I chose as the wisest to run, al∣though

I sweat for it, than stay and have a broken Head.

Hypocon.

VVell, I give you here a twenty-shilling-piece to dry your sweat with a cup of Sack.

Exi Lady.

Trusty.

May all my labours be rewarded thus.

Maid Ioan.

I perceive you take the gift as a due reward, and not as my Ladies bounty.

Trusty.

Hold your prating: what need we thank the Gods, if Saints me∣rit Heaven?

Exeunt.