_Cr. Con._ Mary, syr, he tolde vs, when We had hym founde, we sholde hym brynge, And that we fayled not for nothynge.
_Cl. Col._ All this ye may easely brynge aboute.
_Fan._ Mary, the better and Mesure were out.
_Cl. Col._ Why, can ye not put out that foule freke?
_Cr. Con._ No, in euery corner he wyll peke, So that we haue no lyberte, Nor no man in courte but he, For Lyberte he hath in gydyng. 670
_C. Count._ In fayth, and without Lyberte there is no bydyng.
_Fan._ In fayth, and Lybertyes rome is there but small.
_Cl. Col._ Hem! that lyke I nothynge at all.
_Cr. Con._ But, Counterfet[798] Countenaunce, go we togyder, All thre, I say.
_Cr. Con.[799]_ To Magnyfycence with vs twayne, And in his seruyce thé to retayne.
_C. Count._ But then, syr, what shall I hyght?
_Cr. Con._ Ye and I talkyd therof to nyght. 680
_Fan._ Ye, my Fansy was out of owle flyght, For it is out of my mynde quyght.
_Cr. Con._ And nowe it cometh to my remembraunce: Syr, ye shall hyght Good Demeynaunce.
_C. Count._ By the armes of Calys, well conceyued!
_Cr. Con._ When we haue hym thyder conuayed, What and I frame suche a slyght, That Fansy with his fonde consayte Put Magnyfycence in suche a madnesse, That he shall haue you in the stede of sadnesse, 690 And Sober Sadnesse shalbe your name?
_Cl. Col._ By Cockys body, here begynneth the game! For then shall we so craftely cary, That Mesure shall not there longe tary.
_Fan._ For Cockys harte, tary whylyst that I come agayne.
_Cr. Con._ We wyll se you shortly one of vs twayne.
_C. Count._ Now let vs go, and we shall, then.
_Cl. Col._ Nowe let se quyte you lyke praty men.[800]
To passe the tyme and order whyle a man may talke Of one thynge and other to occupy the place; 700 Then for the season that I here shall walke, As good to be occupyed as vp and downe to trace And do nothynge; how be it full lytell grace There cometh and groweth of my comynge, For Clokyd Colusyon is a perylous thynge. Double delynge and I be all one; Craftynge and haftynge contryued is by me; I can dyssemble, I can bothe laughe and grone; Playne delynge and I can neuer agre; But dyuysyon, dyssencyon, dyrysyon, these thre 710 And I am counterfet of one mynde and thought, By the menys of myschyef to bryng all thynges to nought. And though I be so odyous a geste, And euery man gladly my company wolde refuse, In faythe yet am I occupyed with the best; Full fewe that can themselfe of me excuse. Whan other men laughe, than study I and muse, Deuysynge the meanes and wayes that I can, Howe I may hurte and hynder euery man: Two faces in a hode couertly I bere, 720 Water in the one hande, and fyre in the other; I can fede forth a fole, and lede hym by the eyre; Falshode in felowshyp is my sworne brother. By cloked colusyon, I say, and none other, Comberaunce and trouble in Englande fyrst I began; From that lorde to that lorde I rode and I ran, And flatered them with fables fayre before theyr face, And tolde all the myschyef I coude behynde theyr backe, And made as I had knowen nothynge of the case; I wolde begyn all myschyef, but I wolde bere no lacke: 730 Thus can I lerne you, syrs, to bere the deuyls sacke; And yet, I trowe, some of you be better sped than I Frendshyp to fayne, and thynke full lytherly. Paynte to a purpose good countenaunce I can, And craftely can I grope howe euery man is mynded; My purpose is to spy and to poynte euery man; My tonge is with fauell forked and tyned: By Cloked Colusyon thus many one is begyled. Eche man to hynder I gape and I gaspe; My speche is all pleasure, but I stynge lyke a waspe: 740 I am neuer glad but whan I may do yll, And neuer am I sory but whan that I se I can not myne apyetyte accomplysshe and fulfyll In hynderaunce of welthe and prosperyte; I laughe at all shrewdenes, and lye at lyberte. I muster, I medle amonge these grete estates, I sowe sedycyous sedes of dyscorde and debates: To flater and to flery is all my pretence Amonge all suche persones as I well vnderstonde Be lyght of byleue and hasty of credence; 750 I make them to startyll and sparkyll lyke a bronde, I moue them, I mase them, I make them so fonde, That they wyll here no man but the fyrst tale: And so by these meanes I brewe moche bale.