a, a very beggar!--fasts, unless
He dines on alms! How durst he send thee a letter!
A fellow cut on this hand, and on that;
Bows and is cut again, and bows again!
Who pays you fifty smiles for half a one,--
And that given grudgingly! To you a letter!
I burst with choler! Thus I treat his letter!

[Tears and throws it on the ground.]

So! I was wrong to let him ruffle me;
He is not worth the spending anger on!
I prithee, Master Modus, use despatch,
And presently make ready for our ride.
You, Helen, to my Julia look--a change
Of dresses will suffice. She must have new ones,
Matches for her new state! Haste, friends. My Julia!
Why stand you poring there upon the ground?
Time flies. Your rise astounds you? Never heed--
You'll play my lady countess like a queen!

[They go out.]

ACT IV.

SCENE I.--A Room in the Earl of Rochdale's

[Eater HELEN.]

_Helen_. I'm weary wandering from room to room;
A castle after all is but a house--
The dullest one when lacking company.
Were I at home, I could be company
Unto myself. I see not Master Walter,
He's ever with his ward. I see not her.
By Master Walter's will she bides alone.
My father stops in town. I can't see him.
My cousin makes his books his company.
I'll go to bed and sleep. No--I'll stay up
And plague my cousin into making love!
For, that he loves me, shrewdly I suspect.
How dull he is that hath not sense to see
What lies before him, and he'd like to find!
I'll change my treatment of him. Cross him, where
Before I used to humour him. He comes,
Poring upon a book. What's that you read?

[Enter MODUS.]

_Mod_. Latin, sweet cousin.

_Helen_. 'Tis a naughty tongue,
I fear, and teaches men to lie.

_Mod_. To lie!

_Helen_. You study it. You call your cousin sweet,
And treat her as you would a crab. As sour
'Twould seem you think her, as you covet her!
Why how the monster stares, and looks about!
You construe Latin, and can't construe that!

_Mod_. I never studied women.

_Helen_. No; nor men.
Else would you better know their ways: nor read
In presence of a lady. [Strikes the book from his hand.]

_Mod_. Right you say,
And well you served me, cousin, so to strike
The volume from my hand. I own my fault;
So please you--may I pick it up again?
I'll put it in my pocket!

_Helen_. Pick it up.
He fears me as I were his grandmother!
What is the book?

_Mod_. 'Tis Ovid's Art of Love.

_Helen_. That Ovid was a