r:
Onaelia walking discontentedly weeping to the Crucifix,
her Mayd with her: to them Cornego_.

SONG.

Quest. _Oh sorrow, sorrow, say, where dost thou dwell_?

Answ. _In the lowest roome of Hell_.

Quest. _Art thou borne of Humane race_?

Answ. _No, no, I have a furier[181] face_.

Quest. _Art thou in City, Towne or Court_?

Answ. _I to every place resort_.

Quest. _O why into the world is sorrow sent_?

Answ. _Men afflicted best repent_.

Quest. _What dost thou feed on_?

Answ. _Broken sleepe_.

Quest. _What tak'st thou pleasure in_?

Answ. _To weepe,
To sigh, to sob, to pine, to groane,
To wring my hands, to sit alone_.

Quest. _Oh when, oh when shall sorrow quiet have?_

Answ. _Never, never, never, never,
Never till she finds a grave_.

_Enter Cornego_.

_Corn_. No lesson, Madam, but Lacrymae's?[182] If you had buried nine
husbands, so much water as you might squeeze out of an Onyon had been
teares enow to cast away upon fellowes that cannot thanke you. Come,
be joviall.

_Onae_. Sorrow becomes me best.

_Corn_. A suit of laugh and lye downe[183] would weare better.

_Onae_. What should I doe to be merry, _Cornego_?

_Corn_. Be not sad.

_Onae_. But what's the best mirth in the world?

_Corn_. Marry, this: to see much, say little, doe little, get little,
spend little and want nothing.

_Onae_. Oh, but there is a mirth beyond all these:
This picture has so vex'd me I'me half mad.
To spite it therefore I'le sing any song
Thy selfe shalt tune: say then, what mirth is best?

_Corn_. Why then, Madam, what I knocke out now is the very Maribone
of mirth; and this it is.

_Onae_. Say on.

_Corn_. The best mirth for a Lawyer is to have fooles to his Clients;
for Citizens to have Noblemen pay their debts; for Taylors to have store
of Sattin brought in for them--how little soere their hours are--they'll
be sure to have large yards: the best mirth for bawds is to have fresh
handsome whores, and for whores to have rich guls come aboard their
pinnaces, for then they are sure to build Gully-Asses.

_Onae_. These to such soules are mirth, but to mine none: Away!

[_Exit Corn_.

_Enter Cardinall_.

_Car_. Peace to you, Lady.

_Onae_. I will not sinne so much as hope for peace:
And 'tis a mocke ill suits your gravity.

_Card_. I come to knit the nerves of your lost strength,
To build your ruines up,