Of honest mud and wholesome English fog.

_Arth._ That sign! 'twas once the royal head of James;
Some thirsty limner passing made it Charles;
I've heard it said 'twas e'en our good Queen Bess,
By curious folk that trac'd her high starch'd ruff
In the quaint faded back of antique chair,
Her stomacher in Charles's shrivell'd vest--
Who in his turn is gone. Well, take this letter,
See the old knight; but not a word to him.
Stay, I forgot, my little rosy cousin
Should be a woman now; thus--full of wiles,
Glancing behind the man that trusts her love
To his best friend, and wanton with the girls
She troops with, in such trifling, foolish sort,
To turn the stomach of initiate man.
Fie! I care not to hear of her; yet ask
If she be well. Commend me to my brother;
Thou wilt not tarry--he will give thee gold,
And haste to welcome me--go! At the inn
We'll meet some two hours hence.

[_Exit R._]

_Will._ Hem! I doubt much
About this welcoming.--Sad human Nature!
This brother was a careful, godly youth
That kept accounts, and smiling pass'd a beggar,
Saying, "Good-morrow, friend," yet never gave.
Where head doth early ripen, heart comes late--