FUL.  I was once like thee,
A sigher, melancholy humorist,
Crosser of arms, a goer without garters,
A hatband-hater, and a busk-point[4] wearer,
One that did use much bracelets made of hair,
Rings on my fingers, jewels in mine ears,
And now and then a wench’s carcanet,
Scarfs, garters, bands, wrought waistcoats, gold-stitch’d caps,
A thousand of those female fooleries; but when
I look’d into the glass of reason, straight
I began to loathe that female bravery,
And henceforth studied[5] to cry
Peccavi to the world.

ANS.  I pray you, to your former argument: 
Prescribe a means to win my best-belov’d.

FUL.  First, be not bashful, bar all blushing tricks: 
Be not too apish-female; do not come
With foolish sonnets to present her with,
With legs, with curtsies, congees, and such like: 
Nor with penn’d speeches, or too far-fetch’d sighs: 
I hate such antique, quaint formality.

ANS.  O, but I cannot snatch[6] occasion: 
She dashes every proffer with a frown.

FUL.  A frown, a fool! art thou afraid of frowns? 
He that will leave occasion for a frown,
Were I his judge (all you his case bemoan),
His doom should be ever to lie alone.

ANS.  I cannot choose but, when a wench says nay,
To take her at her word, and leave my suit.

FUL.  Continue that opinion, and be sure
To die a virgin chaste, a maiden pure. 
It was my chance once, in my wanton days,
To court a wench; hark, and I’ll tell thee how: 
I came unto my love, and she look’d coy,
I spake unto my love, she turn’d aside,
I touch’d my love, and ’gan with her to toy,
But she sat mute, for anger or for pride;
I striv’d and kiss’d my love, she cry’d Away! 
Thou wouldst have left her thus—­I made her stay. 
I catch’d my love, and wrung her by the hand: 
I took my love, and set her on my knee,
And pull’d her to me; O, you spoil my band,
You hurt me, sir; pray, let me go, quoth she. 
I’m glad, quoth I, that you have found your tongue,
And still my love I by the finger wrung. 
I ask’d her if she lov’d me; she said, No. 
I bad her swear; she straight calls for a book;
Nay then, thought I, ’tis time to let her go,
I eas’d my knee, and from her cast a look. 
She leaves me wond’ring at these strange affairs,
And like the wind she trips me up the stairs. 
I left the room below, and up I went,
Finding her thrown upon her wanton bed: 
I ask’d the cause of her sad discontent;
Further she lies, and, making room, she said,
Now, sweeting, kiss me, having time and place;
So clings me to her with a sweet embrace.

ANS.  Is’t possible?  I had not thought till now,
That women could dissemble.  Master Fuller,
Here dwells the sacred mistress of my heart;
Before her door I’ll frame a friv’lous walk,
And, spying her, with her devise some talk.