Scena Prima.
He looks like an old surfeited Stallion after his leap∣ing, dull as a Dormouse: see how he sinks; the wench has shot him between wind and water, and I hope sprung a leak.
He needs no teaching, he strikes sure enough; his greatest fault is, he Hunts too much in the Purlues, would he would leave off Poaching.
And for his horn, has left it at the Lodge where he lay late; Oh, he's a precious Lime-hound; turn him loose upon the pursuit of a Lady, and if he lose her, hang him up i'th' slip. When my Fox-bitch Beauty grows proud, I'le borrow him.
Is your Boy turn'd away?
You did command Sir, and I obey you.
'Tis well done: Hark ye further.
Is't possible this fellow should repent? Me thinks that were not noble in him: and yet he looks like a mortifi∣ed member, as if he had a sick mans Salve in's mouth. If a worse man had done this fault now, some Physical Justice or other, would presently (without the help of an Almanack) have opened the obstructions of his Liver, and let him bloud with a Dog whip.
See, see, how modestly your Lady looks, as if she came from Churching with her Neighbour; why, what a Devil can a man see in her face, but that she's honest?
Troth no great matter to speak of, a foolish twink∣ling with the eye, that spoils her Coat; but he must be a cunning Herald that finds it.
See how they Muster one another! O there's a Rank Regiment where the Devil carries the Colours, and his Dam D••um major, now the world and the flesh come behind with the Carriage.
Sure this Lady has a good turn done her against her will: before she was common talk, now none dare say, Can∣tha••ides can stir her, her face looks like a Warrant, willing and commanding all Tongues, as they will answer it, to be tied up and bolted when this Lady means to let her self loose. As I live she has got her a goodly protection, and a gracious; and may use her body discreetly, for her healths sake, once a week, excepting Lent and Dog-days: Oh if they were to be got for mony, what a great sum would come out of the City for these Licences?
To horse, to horse, we lose the morning, Gentlemen.
What, have you lodged the Deer?
Yes, they are ready for the Bow.
Who shoots?
The Princess.
No she'l Hunt.
She'l take a Stand I say.
Who else?
Why the young stranger Prince.
He shall Shoot in a Stone-bow for me. I never lov'd his beyond-sea-ship, since he forsook the Say, for pay∣ing Ten shillings: he was there at the fall of a Deer, and would needs (out of his mightiness) give Ten groats for the Dowcers; marry the Steward would have had the Velvet-head into the bargain, to Turf his Hat withal: I think he should love Venery, he is an old Sir Tristram; for if you be remembred, he forsook the Stagg once, to strike a Rascal Milking in a Medow, and her he kill'd in the eye. Who shoots else?
The Lady Galatea.
That's a good wench, and she would not chide us for tumbling of her women in the Brakes. She's liberal, and by my Bow they say she's honest, and whether that be a fault, I have nothing to do. There's all?
No, one more, Megra.
That's a sirker I' faith boy; there's a wench will Ride her Haunces as hard after a Kennel of Hounds, as a Hunting-saddle; and when she comes home, get 'em clapt, and all is well again. I have known her lose her self three times in one Afternoon (if the Woods had been answerable) and it has been work enough for one man to find her, and he has sweat for it. She Rides well, and she payes well. Hark, let's go.