For truly there are here a sort of crafts
So factious still for war and obstinate,
That we shall be endanger'd. Suing for peace
Is ever treason to the White-Hoods.

We'll look for your support.

OCCO.

Well,

God speed you, sirs.

To fair conditions you shall find me friendly.

[Exeunt SIR SIMON BETTE and SIR GUISEBERt Grutt. VAN AESWYN comes forward.

AESWYN.

My lord, were those that parted from you here
The worshipful negociators?

OCCO.

Ay !

Would they had passed the windmills-how they crawl!

And met no babbling burghers on their way.

AESWYN.

What! you have made an overture?

OCCO.

Not so:

I've flung my line, and yonder pair of hooks
Are aptly baited to ensure me one;
But compromised I am not, no, nor will be,
Till it be seen if yet my suit may thrive
With yon fair frozen dew-drop: all that's left
To represent Van Merestyn's hot blood.

AESWYN.

'Tis said she is but backwardly inclined To any of her swains.

OCCO.

Such wealth as hers

Makes a maid whimsical and hard to please.
She that can have her will, be what it may,
Is much to seek to settle what it shall be.
The damsel must be tried; for if she yield,
The charier must I be, whilst times permit,
Of the good town's goodwill. Her lands lie all
Within the Franc of Ghent.

Send Berckel to her,

I do not bid thee take him or refuse him;
I only say, think twice.

ADRIANA.

But once to think,

When the heart knows itself, is once too much.

CLARA.

Well; answer what you will; no, yes—yes, no;
Either or both; I would the chance were mine;
I say no more; I would it were my lot

To have a lover.

ADRIANA.

Yours? why there's Sir Walter.

CLARA.

Sir Walter? very good; but he's at Bruges.

I want one here.

ADRIANA.

On days of truce he comes.

I want one every day.

CLARA.

Besides, the war

Will never slacken now; a truce to truces.
And though on moonless, cloud-encompass'd nights,
He will, in his discretion, truce or none,

Hazard a trip, yet should he be discover'd,
Mild Van den Bosch would pat him on the head,
And then he'd come no more. But ponder well
What
you shall say; for if it must be 'no'

In substance, you shall hardly find that form
Which shall convey it pleasantly.

ADRIANA.

In truth,

To mould denial to a pleasing shape

In all things, and most specially in love,

Is a hard task; alas! I have not wit

From such a sharp and waspish word as 'no

To pluck the sting. What think you I should say?

CLARA.

A colourable thing or two; as thus:

My lord, we women swim not with our hearts,
Nor yet our judgments, but the world's opinions;
And though I prize you dearly in my soul
And think you of all excellence compounded,
Yet 'tis a serious and unhappy thing
To hear you spoken of: for men protest
That you are cruel, cowardly, and cold,
Boastful, malicious; envious, spiteful, false,

A bull in ire, an ape in jealousy,

A wolf in greediness for blood.

ADRIANA.

No more?

Am I to use no courtesies but these?

CLARA.

No more? Yes, plentifully more! where was I? This for your mind's repute. Then for your person, (Which for my own particular I love)

'Tis said that you are strangely ill to look at;
Your brow as bleak as winter, with a fringe
Of wither'd grass for hair, your nose oblique,
Pointing and slanting like a dial's hand.
They say the fish you had your eyes of laugh'd
To see how they were set, and that your mouth
Grows daily wider, bandying of big words.
All which imaginations, good my lord,
Grossly as they may counterfeit defect.
Where worth abounds, are yet so noised abroad
That in despite of that so high esteem

In which I hold you, I'm constrain'd to say
I'd sooner wed your scullion than yourself.

ADRIANA.

Thanks for your counsel; cunning is the maid
That can convert a lover to a friend,

And you have imp'd me with a new device.
But look! Is this-no, 'tis your brother's page.

CLARA.

All hail to him! he is my daily sport.

Of all things under heaven that make me merry,

It makes me merriest to see a boy

That wants to be a man.

ADRIANA.

His want fulfill'd,

He will not be the worse; 'tis well for them

That have no faults but what they needs must leave.

Enter the Page.

CLARA.

How now, Sir Henry! whither away, brave knight?

PAGE.

I'm coming but to pay my duty here;

The Lady Adriana lets me come.

Why, when our pages steal away our loves,

Tell gardeners to keep blackbirds. Look you hereSeest thou this drooping melancholy maid;

What hast thou done?

PAGE.

Who, I? it was not I.