Bon.  Contempt repaid with scorne; tis my desert; Poyson soone murders a love wounded heart.

[Exit.

(SCENE 2.)

Enter Belisea, Clariana and Thorowgood.

Bel.  You may declare your will[97] here are no eares But those I will not banish, were your busines More secret.

Tho.  Lady, I come to free
My worthy freind and your owne servant, Bonvill,
From an uniust suspition your conceite
Retaines of him.  Your mother did employ me
In the unlucky message that pronouncd you
Empty of honor.

Bel.  Has your worthles freind Hird you to sweare this?

Tho.  I’me none that live By selling oathes.

Bel.  Ile scarce believ’t; he shall not
With all his cunning policie regaine
My good opinion of him.  Sir, you cannot
Doe a more pleasing office then to leave me: 
I do not love to heare of him.

Tho.  Your pleasure rules me. [Exit.

Cla. Belisea, you did ill Not to heare out the Gent[leman].

Bel.  Prethe why? 
His owne confession does appeach him one
In the conspiracy against my honor. 
He sayes my mother was the originall
Of Bonviles slaunder; and how impious
Twere for a child to thinke so, filiall duty
Instructs my knowlidge.

Cla.  Be not confident;
Your piety may misleade you.  Though your mother,
Shees passion like to us; we had it from her. 
Ile say no more; the event will testifie
Whoes in the fault.[98]

    Enter Sucket and Crackby.

Suc.  Be not abashd; a little impudence is requisite; Observe me, with what a garbe and gesture martiall I will beseige their fortresses.

Bel.  Who sent these fooles to trouble us?—­Gent[lemen],
We have some conference will admit no audience
Besides ourselves. 
We must desire you to withdraw, or give us
Leave to do soe.

Suc.  Men of warr are not soe easily put to a retreat; it suites not with their repute.

Cla.  Heele fight with us, sister:  weed best procure him bound toth peace.

Crac.  Ladies, I must no more endure repulse; I come to be a suiter.

Bel.  For what?

Crac.  Why, that you would with Judgment overlooke This lovely countenance.

Cla.  The hangman shall doe’t sooner.

Crac.  If you knew How many bewtious gentlewomen have sued To have my picture—­

Cla.  To hang at their beds head for a memento mori—­

Crac.  You would regard it with more curiosity.  There was a merchants daughter the other day Runn mad at sight of itt.

Cla.  It scared her from her witts:  she thought the divell had haunted her.