and next the Crowne.

_Rod_. _Peter de Lions_ is your Lordships servant,
A boone companion and a lusty knave.
He is in love with _Bellamiraes_ mayd,
And by that love he may bestead your Highnesse
More then your best friends in your best designes.
Call him forth.

_Burb_. What! _Peter_!

_Enter_ Peter.

_Pet_. Here, my Lord.

_Burb_. Why dost thou looke so wildly?

_Pet_. Not with drinke
Nor yet with rage.

_Rod_. His lookes are wild with love.

_Pet_. With love, surreverence[110]? can there be a face
In all the world patcht up with eyes and lips,
A forhead and a payre of crimson cheeks,
To make me doat on, to make me looke wild?

_Rod_. Come, come, tis knowne that you love _Thomasin_.

_Pet_. Zounds they that know that know my heart & all:
I have not the power to deny it, tis most true.

_Burb_. And tis most true that I love _Bellamira_.
Now, if thou art in favor of thy wench,
Many a meeting thou mayst helpe me to
And learne besides what sutors seeke her love
And whom she most affects. These things once knowne
Twere worth a Dukedome, _Peter_.

_Pet_. Sbloud, give me
A Dukedome and Ile warrant you the knowledge
Of these things ten times o're.

_Rod_. Theres Angels for thee, _Peter_, thinke on them
And doe thy best to helpe thy master's love.--
Well howsoever I smooth it to the Duke,
My thoughts are bent on his destruction.

_Pet_. You have my heart
In your purse; Ile doe anything for you.

_Bur_. And thou shalt want no gold; and so farwel.

[_Exeunt_.

_Pet_. I cannot chuse to farewell, and have the good Angels to comfort
me; yet I am melancholy. Heeres gold to make me merry: O but (hey ho)
heres love to make me sad. To avoyd prolixity I am crost with a Sutor
that wants a piece of his toung, and that makes him come lisping home.
They call him _Cavaliero Bowyer_; he will have no nay but the wench. By
these hilts, such another swash-buckler lives not in the nyne quarters
of the world. Why, he came over with the Earle of Pembrooke, and he
limps and he limps & he devoures more French ground at two paces then
will serve _Thomasin_ at nineteene. If ever he speake French, to avoyd
prolixity, he will murder the toung. Ile provide for him; theres but
small choice. Either he shall renounce the wench or forsake his lame
legs, his lisping toung and his life to: for by S. _Denis_ I had rather
dye in a ditch then be bobd[111] of my fayre _Thomasin_.