Tul.  The like will I for sweete Terentia. 
Feare not, I have approoved armour on,
Will bide the brunt of popular reproach
Or whatsoever.

Tere.  Enough, Tully, we are discovered.

    Enter[283] Flavia.

Fla.  Yfaith,[284] are ye at it? what, is there never a loving teare shed on either side? nor you? nor you? Tullies [eyes] are red, come, come, ye fooles, be more breefe.  I would have buried three husbands, before youle be married.

Tul.  Why lives Flavia a Virgin still?

Fla.  Because, I haue vow’d virginitie til I can get a husband.

Teren.  Why, Flavia, you haue many suitors.

Flav.  Oh, I am loaden with suitors; for indeede I am faine to beare with any of them, I have a dumbe-shewe of all their pictures, each has sent in his severall shadow, and I swear I had rather have them then the substance of any of them.

Tul.  Can you not describe them in action?

Flav.  Yes, and their action; I have one honest man of the age of fortie five, or there about, that traverses his ground three mile everie morning to speake to mee, and when hee is come, after the saluting ceremony, of ‘how do you, Lady,’ he falles to calculating the nativitie of the Moone, prognosticating what faire weather will follow, if it either snow or raine; sometime with a gentle pinche by the fingar intermixed with the volley[285] of sighes, hee falles to discoursing of the prise of pease, and that is as pleasing to me as a stinking breath.

Tul.  A good description.

Fla.  Another brings Letters of commendation from the Constable of the Parish, or the Church-warden, of his good behaviour and bringing up, how he could write and reade written hand; further desiring that his Father would request my Father that his Fathers Sonne might marrie my Fathers Daughter and heele make her a joynter of a hundred pound a yeare, and beget three or foure fooles to boote.

Teren.  Better and better.

Tul.[286] Usus promptus [sic] facit; Faemina[e] ludificantur viros; well, forward.

Flav.[287] I have another that I prise derer then the rest, a most sweete youth, and if the wind stand with him I can smell him half a mile ere hee come at me, indeede hee weares a Musk-cat—­what call ye it?—­about him.

Tul.  What doe you call it?

Flav.  What ye will, but he smels better then burnt Rosemarie, as well as a perfuming pan, and everie night after his first sleepe writes lovesicke sonnets, railing against left handed fortune his foe,[288] that suffers his sweet heart to frowne on him so.

Tul.  Then it seemes you graunt him no favour.

Flav.  Faith, I dare not venture on him, for feare he should be rotten; give me nature, not arte.