e your credit, and an execution:
It is thought else--

_En_. Oh--

_Fra_. What aile you, Sir?

_En_. A Megrim in my head.

_Ri_. Whoes there?

_Enter Thomas_.

Looke to Mr. _Engine_ heere, he faints, and send
To your Ladie for some Cordiall waters presently.

_Tho_. There is a Soveraigne Well hard by has done
Strange cures: please you, ile throw him into that.
_Ext. [Thomas; carrying away Engine_.

_Ri_. Though I distast his busines I wod not
He should miscarry here; you frighted him.
But come, I thinke tis supper tyme, Sir _Francis_.
I shall expect youle hunt with me i'th morning;
I have a pack of Doggs sent me will make
The Forrest ring.

_Fra_. Ile cheerefully attend you,
I love the sport; as earlie as you please, Sir.

_Ri_. I wish wee had all pleasures to delight you,
But no thing wants in my true love to serve you.

_Fra_.--Yet I must cuckold him; I cannot helpe it.

_Act the Third_.

_Enter Thomas with Sir Richards bootes_.

_Tho_. Sir.

_Within Ri_. Whoes that? _Thomas_?

_Tho_. The sun is up before you. Here be your bootes.

_Ri_. That's well.

_Within La_. I preethe donot rise yet; it is hardly day. Sirra, who bid
you call him so earlie? Sir _Richard_ wonot rise yet.

_Tho_. I cannot helpe it, it is none of my fault.

_La_. Wheres _Doroty_?

[_Enter Doroty_.

_Do_. Here, Madam; what make you up so soone, _Thomas_?

_Tho_. O Mistres _Dority_, tis e'ne long of you, for betweene sleepe
and awake your remembrance came to me this morning, and _Thomas_ was
up presently.

_Enter Sir Richard [& Lady]_.

_Ri_. You must excuse me, wife;
I meane to kill a brace of hares before
You thinke tis day. Come, on with my Bootes, _Thomas_;
And _Dorothy_ goe you to Sir _Francis_ Chamber,
Tell him the Day growes old and I am readie,
Our horses and the merry hounds expect us.

_La_. Any excuse to leave me.

_Ri_. You may take
Your ease a bed still, Madam. Ile not loose
One morning that invites so pleasantly,
To heare my Doggs, for a new Maidenhead, I.
Twas for these sports and my excess of charge
I left the towne: besides the Citty foggs
And steame of Brick hills almost stifled me;
This Aire is pure and all my owne.

_Tho_. My Ladie
Meanes shee would have you gett another heire,
Sir, for your lands; though it be against my Master
The young Captaine, yet she speakes but reason.
And now I talke o'th Captaine, Sir,
Would you had given him Counsell.