Which if hee have--
_Clowne_. Why then hee hathe, and the mends is in y'r owne hands:
that's all that I can say too't.
_Raphael_. Hee hathe undone mee dubly.
_Treadway_. Hope the best.
Perhapps the threatninge weather kept him backe:
Itt was a trobled skye, the soon set blusheing,
The rack cam swiftly rushing from the west;
And these presadges of a future storme,
Unwillinge for to trust her tendernes
Unto such feares, might make him fayle his hower;
And yet with purpose what hee slack't last night
Howe to make goodd this morninge.
_Raphael_. Oh you tent[66]
My woonds too gently, dally with my dowbts
And flutter my trewe feares: the even was calme,
The skye untrobled, and the soon went downe
Without disturbance in a temperate ayr.
No, not the least conjecture coold be made
Of such a suddeine storme, of which the woorld
Till after midnight was not sensible.
His hower was supper, and in faylinge that--
_Clowne_. Ey, nowe begin I to feare too for thee. Breake his woord if
it bee to com to dinner or supper! I'l never trust his bond for the
valewe of a threepenny ordenarye after.
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