Stew. Be patient Madam, you may have your pleasure.

Are. Tis that I came to towne for, I wo'd not
Endure againe the countrey conversation,
To be the Lady of sixe shires I the men
So neare the Primitive making, they retaine
A sence of nothing but the earth, their braines
And barren heads standing as much in want
Of plowing as their ground, to heare a fellow
Make himselfe merry and his horse with whisteling
Sellingers round, to observe with what solemnitie
They keepe their Wakes, and throw for pewter Candlestickes,
How they become the Morris, whith whose bells
They ring all into Whitson Ales, and sweate,
Through twenty Scarffes and Napkins, till the Hobbyhorse
Tire, and the maide Marrian dissolv'd to a gelly,
Be kept for spoone meate.

Ste. These with your pardon are no Argument
To make the country life appeare so hatefull,
At least to your particular, who enjoy'd
A blessing in that calme; would you be pleasd
To thinke so, and the pleasure of a kingdome,
While your owne will commanded what should move
Delight, your husbands love and power joyned
To give your life more harmony, you liv'd there,
Secure and innocent, beloved of all,
Praisd for your hospitality, and praid for,
You might be envied, but malice knew
Not where you dwelt, I wo'd not prophecy
But leave to your owne apprehension
What may succeede your change.

Are. You doe imagine,
No doubt, you have talk'd wisely, and confuted,
London past all defence, your Master should
Doe well to send you backe into the countrie,
With title of Superintendent Baylie.

Ste. How Madam.

Are. Even so sir.

Ste. I am a Gentleman though now your servant.

Are. A country-gentleman,
By your affection to converse with stuble,
His tenants will advance your wit, and plumpe it so
With beefe and bag-pudding.

Ste. You may say your pleasure,
It becomes not me dispute.

Are. Complaine to the Lord of the soyle your master.

Ste. Y'are a woman of an ungovern'd passion, and I pitty you.
Enter Sir Thomas Bornwell.
Bor. How how? Whats the matter?

Ste. Nothing Sir.

Bor. Angry sweeteheart?

Are. I am angry with my selfe,
To be so miserably restrained in things,
Wherein it doth concern your love and honour
To see me satisfied.

Bor. In what Aretina?
Dost thou accuse me? have I not obeyd
All thy desires, against mine owne opinion,
Quitted the countrie, and removed the hope
Of our returne, by sale of that faire Lordship
We liv'd in, chang'd a calme and retire life
For this wild towne, composd of noise and charge.

Are. What charge more than is necessarie,
For a lady of my birth and education?

Bor. I am not Ignorant, how much Nobilitie
Flowes in your bloud, your kinsmen great and powerfull,
I'th State, but with this lose not your memory
Of being my wife, I shall be studious
Madam to give the dignitie of your birth
All the best ornaments which become my fortune
But would not flatter it, to ruine both,
And be the fable of the towne, to teach
Other men losse of wit by mine, emploid
To serve your vast expences. Are. Am I then
Brought in the ballance? so Sir. Bo. Though you weigh
Me in a partiall scale my heart is honest,
And must take libertie to thinke you have
Obeyed no modest counsell to effect,
Nay study wayes of pride and costly ceremony,
Your change of gaudy furniture and pictures,
Of this Italian Master, and that Dutchmans.
Your mighty looking-glasses like Artillery;
Brought whom on Engins the superfluous plate,
Anticke and novell, vanities of fires,
Fourescore pound suppers for my Lord your kinsman,
Banquets for tother Lady, aunt, and cozens,
And perfumes that exceede all traine of servants,
To stifle us at home and shew abroad
More motley than the French, or the Venetian,
About your Coach whose rude Postillion
Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers
And tradsmen curse your choaking up their stalls;
And common cries pursue your Ladiship,
For hindring o'their market. Are. Have you done sir.

Bor. I could accuse the gayetie of your wardrobe,
And prodigall embroderies under which
Rich Sattens, Plushes, cloath of Silver, dare
Not shew their owne complexions, your jewells
Able to burne out the Spectators eyes,
And shew like Bonefires on you by the tapers,
Something might here be spar'd, which safely of
Your birth and honour, since the truest wealth,
Shines from the soule, and drawes up just admirers,
I could urge something more: Are. Pray doe I like
Your homilie of thrifte. Bo. I could wish Madam
You would not game so much. Are. A gamster too?

Bor. But are not come to that repentance yet,