Wom. She is well enough, Madam:
I have seen a better face, and a straighter body,
And yet she is a pretty Gentlewoman.
Olym. What thinkst thou Petesca?
Pet. Alas, Madam, I have no skill, she has a black eye,
Which is of the least too, and the dullest water:
And when her mouth was made, for certain Madam,
Nature intended her a right good stomach.
Olym. She has a good hand.
2 Wom. 'Tis good enough to hold fast,
And strong enough to strangle the neck of a Lute.
Olym. What think ye of her colour?
Pet. If it be her own
'Tis good black blood: right weather-proof
I warrant it.
2 Wom. What a strange pace she has got!
Olym. That's but her breeding.
Pet. And what a manly body! me thinks she looks
As though she would pitch the Bar, or go to Buffets.
2 Wom. Yet her behaviour's utterly against it,
For me thinks she is too bashful.
Olym. Is that hurtful?
2 Wom. Even equal to too bold: either of 'em, Madam,
May do her injury when time shall serve her.
Olym. You discourse learnedly, call in the wench. [Ex. Gent.
What envious fools are you? Is the rule general,
That Women can speak handsomly of none,
But those they are bred withal?
Pet. Scarce well of those, Madam,
If they believe they may out-shine 'em any way:
Our natures are like Oyl, compound us with any thing,
Yet still we strive to swim o' th' top:
Suppose there were here now,
Now in this Court of Mosco, a stranger Princess,
Of bloud and beauty equal to your excellence,
As many eyes and services stuck on her;
What would you think?
Olym. I would think she might deserve it.
Pet. Your Grace shall give me leave not to believe ye;
I know you are a Woman, and so humour'd:
I'le tell ye Madam, I could then get more Gowns on ye,
More Caps and Feathers, more Scarfs, and more Silk-stockings
With rocking you asleep with nightly railings
Upon that Woman, than if I had nine lives
I could wear out: by this hand ye'would scratch her eyes out.
Olym. Thou art deceiv'd fool;
Now let your own eye mock ye.
Come hither Girl: hang me and she be not a handsom one.
Pet. I fear it will prove indeed so.
Olym. Did you ever serve yet
In any place of worth?
Alin. No, Royal Lady.
Pet. Hold up your head; fie.
Olym. Let her alone, stand from her.
Alin. It shall be now,
Of all the blessings my poor youth has pray'd for,
The greatest and the happiest to serve you;
And might my promise carry but that credit
To be believ'd, because I am yet a stranger,
Excellent Lady, when I fall from duty,
From all the service that my life can lend me,
May everlasting misery then find me.
Olym. What think ye now? I do believe, and thank ye;
And sure I shall not be so far forgetful,
To see that honest faith die unrewarded:
What must I call your name?
Alin. Alinda, Madam.
Olym. Can ye sing?
Alin. A little, when my grief will give me leave, Lady.
Olym. What grief canst thou have Wench?
Thou art not in love?
Alin. If I be Madam, 'tis only with your goodness;
For yet I never saw that man I sighed for.
Olym. Of what years are you?
Alin. My Mother oft has told me,
That very day and hour this land was blest
With your most happy birth, I first saluted
This worlds fair light: Nature was then so busie,
And all the Graces to adorn your goodness,
I stole into the world poor and neglected.
Olym. Something there was, when I first look'd upon thee,
Made me both like and love thee: now I know it;
And you shall find that knowledge shall not hurt you:
I hope ye are a Maid?
Alin. I hope so too, Madam;
I am sure for any man: and were I otherwise,
Of all the services my hopes could point at,
I durst not touch at yours.
Pet. The great Duke, Madam.
Duk. Good morrow, Sister.
Olym. A good day to your highness.
Duk. I am come to pray you use no more perswasions
For this old stubborn man: nay to command ye:
His sail is swell'd too full: he is grown too insolent,
Too self-affected, proud: those poor slight services
He has done my Father, and my self, has blown him
To such a pitch, he flyes to stoop our favours.
Olym. I am sorry Sir: I ever thought those services
Both great and noble.
Bur. However, may it please ye
But to consider 'em a true hearts Servants,
Done out of faith to you, and not self-fame:
Do but consider royal Sir, the dangers;
When you have slept secure, the mid-night tempests,
That as he marcht sung through his aged locks;
When you have fed at full, the wants and famins;
The fires of Heaven, when you have found all temperate,
Death