nging downe his wings) doth sit,
Comparing Cherries to thy Ruby lippes:
Here is thy browe, thy haire, thy neck, thy hand,
Of purpose all in severall shrowds disper'st,
Least ravisht I should dote on mine own worke
Or Envy-burning eyes should malice it.

_Lu_. No more, my Lord; see, here comes _Haunce_
our man.

_Enter Haunce_.

_Haunce_. We have the finest Painter here at boord wages that ever made
Flowerdelice, and the best bedfellow, too; for I may lie all night
tryumphing from corner to corner while he goes to see the Fayries, but
I for my part see nothing, but here [sic] a strange noyse sometimes.
Well, I am glad we are haunted so with Fairies, for I cannot set a
cleane pump down but I find a dollar in it in the morning. See, my
Mistresse _Lucilia_, shee's never from him: I pray God he paints no
pictures with her; but I hope my fellowe hireling will not be so sawcie.
But we have such a wench a comming for you (Lordings) with her woers:
A, the finest wench.

Wink, wink, deare people, and you be wise,
And shut, O shut, your weeping eyes.

_Enter_ Cornelia _sola, looking upon the picture of_
Alberdure _in a little Jewell, and singing. Enter the
Doctor and the Merchant following and hearkning to her_.

THE SONG.

_What thing is love? for sure I am it is a thing,
It is a prick, it is a thing, it is a prettie, prettie thing;
It is a fire, it is a cole, whose flame creeps in at every hoale;
And as my wits do best devise
Loves dwelling is in Ladies eies_.

_Haunce_. O rare wench!

_Cor_. Faire Prince, thy picture is not here imprest
With such perfection as within my brest.

_Mar_. Soft, maister Doctor.

_Doct_. _Cornelia_, by garr dis paltry marshan be too bolde, is too
sawcie by garr. Foole, holde off hand, foole; let de Doctor speake.

_Han_. Now my brave wooers, how they strive for a Jewes Trump.

_Doct_. Madam, me love you; me desire to marry you. Me pray you not
to say no.

_Cor_. Maister Doctor, I think you do not love me;
I am sure you shall not marry me,
And (in good sadnes) I must needs say no.

_Mar_. What say you to this, maister Doctor. Mistresse, let me speake.
That I do love you I dare not say, least I should offend you; that I
would marry you I had rather you should conceive then I should utter:
and I do live or die upon your _Monasi[la]ble_, I or no.

_Doct_. By gar if you will see de _Marshan_ hang himselfe, say no:
a good shasse by garr.

_H