The Custom of the Country

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.