Sis.  You thinke I am very dull that you expound
Your witt thus, but it needes no Comentator,
Not by the Author, tis so very plaine;
But to despise me most of all the sexe
Is something oversaid.  Though I affect
No flattery, I hate uncivill Language. 
You do not meane to quarrell, now you have
Betraid me to the feilds, and beat me, Sir?

Cou.  What is there in your face more to attract mee
Then that Red Cowes complexion?  Why the Divell
Do you thinke I should dote upon your person? 
That thing when she is stroak’d gives milke.

Sis.  By that
I understand all this revenge, because
You thinke I did neglect you.  Pray, sir, tell me,
And tell me seriouslie, put the Case that I
Should love you now, could not you love agen?

Cou.  In troth I thinke I could not.

Sis.  You do but thinke.

Cou.  Nay, ile bind it with an oath before the parish, And when I have given my reasons, too, the Clarke Shall praise me fort and say Amen.

Sis.  What reasons?

Cou.  I shall be very loath
To say your eyes are twinckling Starres agen,
Your lipps twin cherries and out blush the rubie,
Your azure veines vye beauty with the Saphire
Or that your swelling breasts are hills of Ivory,
Pillowes for Jove to rest his amorous head,
When my owne Conscience tells me that Bunhill
Is worth a hundred on ’em, and but Higate
Compar’d with ’em is Paradice.  I thanke you;
Ile not be vext and squeez’d about a rime
Or in a verse that’s blanke, as I must be,
Whine love unto[268] a tune.

Sis.  This all your feare?

Cou.  No, I doe feare to loose my tyme, my businesse, And my witts too, jolting them all away To waite on you in prouder Coaches.

Sis.  Is this all?

Cou.  To spend my selfe to nothing and be laugh’d at
By all the world when I shall come at last
To this reward for all my services,
To bee your lay Court Chaplaine and say gravely
A hastie grace before your windowes breakfast.

Sis.  But how
Came you thus cur’d?  You were a passionate
(I may say) foole, in hope you will deserve it. 
What phisick tooke you that hath thus restor’d you?

Cou.  A little sack had power to cure this madnes.

Sis.  I hope you are not sober yet, the humour May change when you ha slept.

Cou.  Ile rather stick My Eyelids up with Sisters[269] thread and stare Perpetually.

Sis.  Then you may see me agen.

Cou.  I thinke I sha’not, unless it be to wonder,
When you are in the Ivie bush, that face
Cut upon Tafata, that creame and prunes,
So many plums in white broth, that scutcheon of
Pretence powderd with ermines.  Now I looke upon’t,
With those black patches it does put me in mind
Of a white soule with sinns upon’t, and frights me. 
How sell you grapes?  Your haire[270] does curle in bunches;
You[r] lipps looke like the parsons glebe, full of
Red, blew and yellow flowers; how they are chopt
And looke like trenches made to draine the meadowe.