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.