Rut. Good wench still.

Zeno. And till he fling me off, as undeserving, Which I confess I am, of such a blessing, But would be loth to find it so—­

Arn. O never;
Never my happy Mistress, never, never,
When your poor servant lives but in your favour,
One foot i’th’ grave the other shall not linger. 
What sacrifice of thanks, what age of service,
What danger, of more dreadful look than death,
What willing Martyrdom to crown me constant
May merit such a goodness, such a sweetness? 
A love so Nobly great, no power can ruine;
Most blessed Maid go on, the Gods that gave this,
This pure unspotted love, the Child of Heaven,
In their own goodness, must preserve and save it,
And raise you a reward beyond our recompence.

Zeno. I ask but you, a pure Maid to possess, And then they have crown’d my wishes:  If I fall then Go seek some better love, mine will debase you.

Rut. A pretty innocent fool; well, Governour, Though I think well of your custom, and could wish my self For this night in your place, heartily wish it:  Yet if you play not fair play and above board too, I have a foolish gin here, I say no more; I’le tell you what, and if your honours guts are not inchanted.

Arn. I should now chide you Sir, for so declining The goodness and the grace you have ever shew’d me, And your own vertue too, in seeking rashly To violate that love Heaven has appointed, To wrest your Daughters thoughts, part that affection That both our hearts have tyed, and seek to give it.

Rut. To a wild fellow, that would weary her; A Cannibal, that feeds on the heads of Maids, Then flings their bones and bodies to the Devil, Would any man of discretion venture such a gristle, To the rude clawes of such a Cat-a-mountain?  You had better tear her between two Oaks, a Town Bull Is a meer Stoick to this fellow, a grave Philosopher, And a Spanish Jennet, a most vertuous Gentleman.

Arn. Does this seem handsome Sir?

Rut. Though I confess
Any man would desire to have her, and by any means,
At any rate too, yet that this common Hangman,
That hath whipt off the heads of a thousand maids already,
That he should glean the Harvest, sticks in my stomach: 
This Rogue breaks young wenches to the Saddle,
And teaches them to stumble ever after;
That he should have her? for my Brother now
That is a handsome young fellow; and well thought on,
And will deal tenderly in the business;
Or for my self that have a reputation,
And have studied the conclusions of these causes,
And know the perfect manage, I’le tell you old Sir,
If I should call you wise Sir, I should bely you,
This thing, you study to betray your child to,
This Maiden-monger.  When you have done your best,
And think you have fixt her in the point of honour,
Who do you think you have tyed her to? a Surgeon,
I must confess an excellent dissector,
One that has cut up more young tender Lamb-pies—­