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Rut. Why do you grieve thus still? Arn. 'Twould melt a Marble, And tame a Savage man, to feel my fortune. Rut. What fortune? I have liv'd this thirty years, And run through all these follies you call fortunes, Yet never fixt on any good and constant, But what I made myself: why should I grieve then At that I may mould any way? Arn. You are wide still. Rut. You love a Gentlewoman, a young handsom woman, I have lov'd a thosand, not so few. Arn. You are dispos'd. Rut. You hope to Marry her; 'tis a lawful calling And prettily esteem'd of, but take heed then, Take heed dear Brother of a stranger fortune Than e're you felt yet; fortune my foe is a friend to it. Arn. 'Tis true I love, dearly, and truly love, A noble, vertuous, and most beauteous Maid, And am belov'd again. Rut. That's too much o' Conscience, To love all these would run me out o' my wits. Arn. Prethee give ear, I am to Marry her. Rut. Dispatch it then, and I'le go call the Piper. Arn. But O the wicked Custom of this Country, The barbarous, most inhumane, damned Custom.
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