And run through all these follies you call fortunes,
Yet never fixt on any good and constant,
But what I made myself: why should I grieve then
At that I may mould any way?

_Arn._ You are wide still.

_Rut._ You love a Gentlewoman, a young handsom woman,
I have lov'd a thosand, not so few.

_Arn._ You are dispos'd.

_Rut._ You hope to Marry her; 'tis a lawful calling
And prettily esteem'd of, but take heed then,
Take heed dear Brother of a stranger fortune
Than e're you felt yet; fortune my foe is a friend to it.

_Arn._ 'Tis true I love, dearly, and truly love,
A noble, vertuous, and most beauteous Maid,
And am belov'd again.

_Rut._ That's too much o' Conscience,
To love all these would run me out o' my wits.

_Arn._ Prethee give ear, I am to Marry her.

_Rut._ Dispatch it then, and I'le go call the Piper.

_Arn._ But O the wicked Custom of this Country,
The barbarous, most inhumane, damned Custom.