at's my sweet Dick!

COOMES. 'Swouns, who would not be a man of valour to have such words of
a gentlewoman! one of their words are more to me than twenty of these
russet-coats, cheese-cakes, and butter-makers. Well, I thank God, I am
none of these cowards; well, and a man have any virtue in him, I see he
shall be regarded. [_Aside_.]

MRS GOUR. Art thou resolved, Dick? wilt thou do this for me?
And if thou wilt, here is an earnest-penny
Of that rich guerdon I do mean to give thee.
[_Gives money_.]

COOMES. An angel,[305] mistress! let me see. Stand you on my left hand,
and let the angel lie on my buckler on my right hand, for fear of losing.
Now, here stand I to be tempted. They say, every man hath two spirits
attending on him, either good or bad; now, I say, a man hath no other
spirits but either his wealth or his wife: now, which is the better of
them? Why, that is as they are used; for use neither of them well, and
they are both nought. But this is a miracle to me, that gold that is
heavy hath the upper, and a woman that is light doth soonest fall,
considering that light things aspire, and heavy things soonest go down:
but leave these considerations to Sir John;[306] they become a
black-coat better than a blue.[307] Well, mistress, I had no mind to-day
to quarrel; but a woman is made to be a man's seducer; you say, quarrel?

MRS GOUR. Ay.

COOMES. There speaks an angel: is it good?

MRS GOUR. Ay.

COOMES. Then, I cannot do amiss; the good angel goes with me.

[_Exeunt.

Enter_ SIR RALPH SMITH, _his_ LADY, WILL, [_and_ ATTENDANTS].

SIR RALPH. Come on, my hearts: i'faith, it is ill-luck,
To hunt all day, and not kill anything.
What sayest thou, lady? art thou weary yet?

LADY. I must not say so, sir.

SIR RALPH. Although thou art!

WILL. And can you blame her, to be forth so long,
And see no better sport?

SIR RALPH. Good faith, 'twas very hard.

LADY. No, 'twas not ill,
Because, you know, it is not good to kill.

SIR RALPH. Yes, venison, lady.

LADY. No, indeed, nor them;
Life is as dear in deer as 'tis in men.

SIR RALPH. But they are kill'd for sport.

LADY. But that's bad play,
When they are made to sport their lives away.

SIR RALPH. 'Tis fine to see them run.

LADY. What, out of breath?
They run but ill that run themselves to death.

SIR RALPH. They might make, then, less haste, and ke