De.  Now I can tell you, Lady, what a strange frost was in one part of the world—­

Sis.  I shall cry out fire if you doe; I had rather have some discourse to keepe me warm still.

De.  Or how the whole world was troubled with the wind Collick.

Sis.  No more Earthquakes, I beseech you.  Some frends of myne lost a great deale of land the last terme, and for ought I know tis never like to be recover’d.  Why, all these verses you have honourd me to heare were translated out of French.

De.  You say very right, Lady.

Sis.  No, no; they are out of Spanish, as I remember.

De.  I thinke it be out of Spanish, indeed.

Sis.  Or else the Italian.

De.  Troth, I know not which very well.

Sis.  And yet you made ’em!  Some gentlemen have the faculty to make verses and forgett what language was the Originall:  tis Alamode, I confesse, sir.

De.  Thers the mischiefe in poetry:  a man might have told 200 lies in prose upon his owne name, and never miscaried.—­But, leaving these rude rymes, Ladie, how do you like the novice that Sir Richard comended.

Sis.  Mr. Courtwell?

De.  Is he not a pretty Chrisome[249]?  I could not choose but laugh to observe in what rurall deportment he came to salute you, that should have made his address in theis postures.

Sis.  Tis enough, sir; I apprehend what you would doe.  The truth is, touching that thing in black, I doe not love him.

De.  I know’t; tis impossible.

Sis.  Why is’t impossible?  The man’s a pretty indifferent meaning man, but I must have one of a more active spiritt.  No, no, the man’s a Coward.

De.  He lookes like one.

Sis.  I put him to’t, he dares not fight; and he that expects my favour to so high a degree as marriage must be none of my lord Maiors whifflers[250]; he must be valiant in Armes.  I am not taken with a ring or Caskanet, as some avaritious Ladies; he that presents me with the sword of his rivall is more welcome then all the silken soft natur’d six hundreds a yeere, that will be baffeld in their best clothes and goe downe into the Country every Vacacon like Atturneys to be beaten against next terme and get damage by it, but I forget some affaires that concerne me.  I take my leave.  Your deserts upon me are eminent and many, and for all your noble services I—­will promise you nothing:  you apprehend me?

De.  O, sweet Lady, tis too much.

Sis.  I am so weary I can stay no longer w’ee. [Exit.

De.  You make mee over happie.—­So, so; the matters done.  I may write my friends.  Hum:  well thought upon!  I shall leave her joyes without any bound to entertaine me if I first beat this foolish rivall of mine and present her with his sword.  She assures me he dares not fight:  it shall be so.  Thus with one baffling and disarming him I shall secure my Mistresse and get the reputation of a fighting Cavallier, which may save me many a knock hereafter among men of strong faith that shall heare how much honour I have elsewhere taken upon the ticket.