Dua. What is done Sir, I thought well done, and was in that rewarded, And therefore spare your thanks.

Rut. I’le no more Whoring: 
This fencing ’twixt a pair of sheets, more wears one
Than all the exercise in the world besides. 
To be drunk with good Canary, a meer Julip
Or like gourd-water to’t; twenty Surfeits
Come short of one nights work there.  If I get this Lady
As ten to one I shall, I was ne’re denied yet,
I will live wondrous honestly; walk before her
Gravely and demurely
And then instruct my family; you are sad,
What do you muse on Sir?

Dua. Truth I was thinking
What course to take for the delivery of your letter,
And now I have it:  but faith did this Lady
(For do not gull your self) for certain know,
You kill’d her Son?

Rut. Give me a Book I’le swear’t;
Denyed me to the Officers, that pursued me,
Brought me her self to th’ door, then gave me gold
To bear my charges, and shall I make doubt then
But that she lov’d me?  I am confident
Time having ta’ne her grief off, that I shall be
Most welcome to her:  for then to have wooed her
Had been unseasonable.

Dua. Well Sir, there’s more mony, To ma[ke] you handsome; I’le about your business:  You know where you must stay?

Rut. There you shall find me: 
Would I could meet my Brother now, to know,
Whether the Jew, his Genius, or my Christian,
Has prov’d the better friend. [Exit.

Dua. O who would trust
Deceiving woman! or believe that one
The best, and most Canoniz’d ever was
More than a seeming goodness?  I could rail now
Against the sex, and curse it; but the theam
And way’s too common:  yet that Guiomar
My Mother; (nor let that forbid her to be
The wonder of our nation) she that was
Mark’d out the great example, for all Matrons
Both Wife and Widow; she that in my breeding
Exprest the utmost of a Mothers care,
And tenderness to a Son; she that yet feigns
Such sorrow for me; good God, that this mother,
After all this, should give up to a stranger,
The wreak she ow’d her Son; I fear her honour. 
That he was sav’d, much joyes me, and grieve only
That she was his preserver.  I’le try further,
And by this Engine, find whether the tears,
Of which she is so prodigal, are for me,
Or us’d to cloak her base hypocrisie. [Exit.

Enter Hippolyta and Sulpitia.

Hip. Are you assur’d the charm prevails?

Sulp. Do I live? 
Or do you speak to me?  Now this very instant
Health takes its last leave of her; meager paleness
Like winter, nips the Roses and the Lilies,
The Spring that youth, and love adorn’d her face with. 
To force affection, is beyond our art,
For I have prov’d all means that hell has taught me,
Or the malice of a woman, which exceeds it,
To change Arnoldo’s love, but to no purpose: 
But for your bond-woman—­