Raphael.  Well, mett, good Mr. Mildewe.

Mildewe.  My returne Of your salutes I cast belowe your feete.

Raphael.  Syr, I am yours to treade on.  You will then Stand to your former bargen?

Mildewe.  I weare else Not woorthy to bee stil’d what I am tearmd, A trewe venereall broaker.

Clowne.  That’s in Italian A damnable hee bawde.

Mildewe Y’have such a bargen
Marcellis, nor all France, shall yeild the like. 
Tis such a deynty peece of purity
Such a coy thinge that[53] hee unto whose lott
She shall hereafter fall may boast himself
To bee a happy husband.  For our trade
Shees out at that:  neather promises, rewards,
Example or Intreaty, fayre, fowle meanes,
Gaine present or the hope of future goodd,
Can force from her a presens; then much lesse
A frendly prostitution.

Raphael.  Hearst thou this?

Treadway.  Yes[54] and comende it in her, if that toonge, Even from his fyrst of speakinge traind to lye, Can now at lengthe speake truth.

Clowne.  Ay theres the dowbt.

Sarly.  This too yeares I have quested to his howse, And knwe all this most certeine.

Raphael.  Witnes too.

Mildewe.  I doo protest she spoyles my family
And rather growne a hyndrance to my trade
Then benefitt; so that, if not to losse,
I wishe that I were clerly ridd of her,
For shee hathe gott a trick to[55] my whores;
And such as of themselves are impudent,
When shee but coms in presens she makes blushe,
As if ashamd of what they late had doon
Or are about to doo.

Clowne.  Well sayde, ould sinner.

Raphael.  See, heeres the sum, 3 hundred crownes.

Mildewe.  O’th somme.

Raphael.  All currant and full weight.

Mildewe.  I’l fetch my doughter That hath no lightnes in her, currant too As any lasse i’th cittye.

Raphael. Mildewe, staye.

Clowne.  Staye, oh thou father of fornication and marchant of nothinge but mesteryes and mischeife; whele about, thou dung[c]art of diseases; sayle this way thoue galley foyst[56] of galls and garbadge!  Dost not heare my master? staye!

Mildewe.  Why, did his worshippe call?

Clowne.  Didst thou not heare him call, and mee cry out upon thee?

Mildewe.  His pleasure then?

Raphael.  I have bethought mee better nowe to keepe
This business secrett, least it chance to arryve
To th’eares of some of my most noble frends;
And not to make it publicke and this honest
Purpose of myne by that meanes misreated,[57]
Heare lett her stay till night bycause I am loath
In th’eye of day to move her through the streetes.

Mildewe.  Good, syr.