said, I should follow you indeed. Well, Toni, give me thy fist, we are friends; you shall be mine ingle: I love you; but I pray you let's have no more of these ducking devices.

Dog. Not, if you love me. Dogs love where they are beloved; cherish me, and I'll do any thing for thee.

Cud. Well, you shall have jowls and livers; I have butchers to my friends that shall bestow 'em : and I will keep crusts and bones for you, if you'll be a kind dog, Tom.

Dog. Any thing ; I'll help thee to thy love.

Cud. Wilt thou ? that promise shall cost me a brown loaf, though I steal it out of my

father's cupboard: you'll eat stolen goods, Tom, will

you not?

Dog. Oh, best of all; the sweetest bits those.

Cud. You shall not starve, ningle Tom, believe that: if you love fish, I'll help you to maids and soles; I'm acquainted with a fishmonger.

Dog. Maids and soles? Oh, sweet bits! bana queting stuff, those.

Cud. One thing I would request you, ningle, as you have play'd the knavish cur with me a little,

a

3 I'll help you to maids and soles, &c.] This is Decker up and down, as Margaret says; and every now and then reminds me of Hircius and Spungius, in the Virgin Martyr. It would seem as if he had taken the whole of the witchery upon himself. Ningle, which occurs in the same line, and which Cuddy perpetually applies to Tom in the subsequent scenes, is frequently used by our old writers, as in this place, for a favourite, a familiar friend, &ca See Jonson, vol. iii., p. 444. VOL. II.

K K

that you would mingle amongst our morricedancers in the morning. You can dance?

Doy. Yes, yes, any thing; I'll be there, but unseen to any but thyself. Get thee gone before; fear not my presence. I have work to-night; I serve more masters, more dames than one.

Cud. He can serve Mammon and the devil too. Dog. It shall concern thee, and thy love's pur

chase. There's a gallant rival loves the maid, And likely is to have her. Mark what a mischief, Before the morrice ends, shall light on him!

Cud. Oh, sweet ningle, thy neuf once again; friends must part for a time: farewell, with this remembrance; shalt have bread too when we meet again. If ever there were an honest devil, 'twill be the devil of Edmonton," I see. Farewell, Tom, I prithee dog me as soon as thou canst.

[Exit. Dog. I'll not miss thee, and be merry with thee. Those that are joys denied, must take delight In sins and mischiefs; 'tis the devil's right. [Exit.

4

If ever there were an honest devil, 'twill be the devil of Edmonton.] The allusion is to “Master Peter Fabel,” who, as the prologue to the old comedy says, " was called, for his sleights and his magic, the merry Devil of Edmonton." By a playful succession of harmless tricks,

SCENE II.— The Neighbourhood of Edmonton,

Enter Frank THORNEY, and WINNIFREDE in

boy's clothes.

Frank. Prithee no more! those tears give nou

rishment To weeds and briars in me, which shortly will O’ergrow and top my head; my shame will sit And cover all that can be seen of me.

Win. I have not shown this cheek in company;
Pardon me now: thus singled with yourself,
It calls a thousand sorrows round about,
Some going before, and some on either side,
But infinite behind; all chain'd together:
Your second adulterous marriage leads;
That is the sad eclipse, the effects must follow,
As plagues of shame, spite, scorn, and obloquy.
Frank. Why? hast thou not left one hour's pa- .

tience
To add to all the rest ? one hour bears us
Beyond the reach of all these enemies:
Are we not now set forward in the flight,
Provided with the dowry of my sin,
To keep us in some other nation?
While we together are, we are at home
In any place.

Win. 'Tis foul ill-gotten coin,
Far worse than usury or extortion,

Frank. Let
My father then make the restitution,
Who forced me take the bribe: it is his gift
And patrimony to me; so I receive it.
He would not bless, nor look a father on me,
Until I satisfied his

angry

will: When I was sold, I sold myself again (Some knaves have done't in lands, and I in body) For money, and I have the hire. But, sweet, no

more,
’lis hazard of discovery; our discourse;
And then prevention takes off all our hopes :
For only but to take her leave of me,
My wife is coming.

Win. Who coming ? your wife!
Frank. No, no; thou art here: the woman-I

knew
Not how to call her now; but after this day
She shall be quite forgot, and have no name
In my remembrance. See, see! she's come.

Enter Susan.

Go lead The horses to th' hill's top; there I'll meet thee. Sus. Nay, with your favour let him stay, a

little; I would part with him too, because he is Your sole companion; and I'll begin with him, Reserving you the last.

Frank. Ay, with all my

heart.
Sus. You may hear, if it please you, sir.

Frank. No, 'tis not fit:
Some rudiments, I conceive, they must be,
To overlook my slippery footings: and so-

Sus. No, indeed, sir.
Frank. Tush, I know it must be so,
And it is 'necessary: on! but be brief.

[Walks forward. Win. What charge soe'er you lay upon me,

mistress,
I shall support it faithfully (being honest)
To my best strength.

Sus. Believe't shall be no other.
I know you were commended to my

husband By a noble knight.

Win. Oh gods !---oh, mine eyes!
Sus. How now? what ail'st thou, lad ?
Win. Something hit mine eye, (it makes it

water still,) Even as you said “commended to my hus,