_Lacy._ Why looks my lord like to a troubled sky, When heaven's bright shine is shadowed with a fog? Alate we ran the deer, and through the lawnds Stripp'd[173] with our nags the lofty frolic bucks That scudded 'fore the teasers[174] like the wind: Ne'er was the deer of merry Fressingfield So lustily pull'd down by jolly mates, Nor shar'd the farmers such fat venison, So frankly dealt, this hundred years before; Nor have I seen my lord more frolic in the chase, And now chang'd to a melancholy dump.
_War._ After the prince got to the keeper's lodge, And had been jocund in the house awhile, Tossing off ale and milk in country cans; Whether it was the country's sweet content, Or else the bonny damsel fill'd us drink, That seem'd so stately in her stammel[175] red, Or that a qualm did cross his stomach then, But straight he fell into his passions.
_Erms._ Sirrah Ralph, what say you to your master, Shall he thus all amort[176] live malcontent?
_Ralph._ Hearest thou, Ned?--Nay, look if he will speak to me!
_Ralph._ I prithee, tell me, Ned, art thou in love with the Keeper's daughter?
_Ralph._ Why then, sirrah, I'll teach thee how to deceive love.
_Ralph._ Marry, Sirrah Ned, thou shalt put on my cap and my coat and my dagger, and I will put on thy clothes and thy sword; and so thou shalt be my fool.
_Ralph._ Why, so thou shalt beguile Love; for Love is such a proud scab, that he will never meddle with fools nor children. Is not Ralph's counsel good, Ned?
_P. Edw._ Tell me, Ned Lacy, didst thou mark the maid, How lovely in her country weeds she look'd? A bonnier wench all Suffolk cannot yield:-- All Suffolk! nay, all England holds none such.
_Ralph._ Sirrah Will Ermsby, Ned is deceived.
_Ralph._ He says all England hath no such, and I say, and I'll stand to it, there is one better in Warwickshire.
_Ralph._ Why, is not the abbot a learned man, and hath read many books, and thinkest thou he hath not more learning than thou to choose a bonny wench? yes, I warrant thee, by his whole grammar.
_P. Edw._ I tell thee, Lacy, that her sparkling eyes Do lighten forth sweet love's alluring fire; And in her tresses she doth fold the looks Of such as gaze upon her golden hair: Her bashful white, mix'd with the morning's red, Luna doth boast upon her lovely cheeks; Her front is beauty's table, where she paints The glories of her gorgeous excellence; Her teeth are shelves of precious margarites,[177] Richly enclos'd with ruddy coral cleeves.[178] Tush, Lacy, she is beauty's over-match, If thou survey'st her curious imagery.