The Tragedy of M.Arden
Clarke.
You did.
Mos.
And what, Wilt be a match,
Clarke.
A match, I faith sir I, the day is mine,
The Painter, layes his cullours to the lyfe,
His pensel draws no shadowes in his loue.
Susan is mine.
Ales.
You make her blushe.
Mos.
What sister is it Clarke must be the man?
Su.
It resteth in your graunt, some words are past,
And happely we be growne vnto a match,
If you be willing that it shall be so?
Mos.
Ah maister Clarke, it resteth at my grant,
You see my sister's yet at my dispose,
But so youle graunt me one thing I shall aske,
I am content my sister shall be yours.
Clark.
What is it M. Mosbie?
Mos.
I doo remember once in secret talke,
You tould me how you could compound by Arte,
A crucifix impoysoned:
That who so looke vpon it should waxe blinde,
And with the sent be stifeled, that ere long,
He should dye poysond, that did view it wel.
I would haue you make me such a crucifix,
And then Ile grant my sister shall be yours.
Cla.
Though I am loath, because it toucheth lyfe,
Yet rather or Ile leaue sweete Susans loue,
Ile do it, and with all the haste I may.
But for whome is it?
Ales.
Leaue that to vs, why Clarke, is it possible,
That you should paint and draw it out your selfe,
The cullours beeing balefull and impoysoned,
And no waies preiudice your selfe with all?
Mos.
Well questioned Ales,
Clarke how answer you that?
Cla.
Uery easily, Ile tell you straight,
How I doo worke of these Impoysoned drugs,
