Leo.  Now Sir, Do you find this truth?

Dem.  I would not.

Lieu.  Pox upon it, They have such tender bodies too; such Culisses, That one good handsom blow breaks ’em a pieces.

Leo.  How stands the Enemy?

Lieu.  Even cool enough too:  For to say truth he has been shrewdly heated, The Gentleman no doubt will fall to his jewlips.

Leo.  He marches not i’th’ tail on’s.

Lieu.  No, plague take him,
He’l kiss our tails as soon; he looks upon us,
As if he would say, if ye will turn again, friends,
We will belabor you a little better,
And beat a little more care into your coxcombs. 
Now shall we have damnable Ballads out against us,
Most wicked madrigals:  and ten to one, Colonel,
Sung to such lowsie, lamentable tunes.

Leo.  Thou art merry,
How e’re the game goes:  good Sir be not troubled,
A better day will draw this back again. 
Pray go, and cheer those left, and lead ’em off,
They are hot, and weary.

Dem.  I’le doe any thing.

Leo.  Lieutenant, send one presently away To th’ King, and let him know our state:  and hark ye, Be sure the messenger advise his Majestie To comfort up the Prince:  he’s full of sadness.

Lieu.  When shall I get a Surgeon? this hot weather, Unless I be well pepper’d, I shall stink, Colonel.

Leo.  Go, I’le prepare thee one.

Lieu.  If ye catch me then, Fighting again, I’le eat hay with a horse. [Exit.

SCENA III.

Enter Leucippe (reading) and two Maids at a Table writing.

Leu.  Have ye written to Merione?

1 Ma.  Yes, Madam.

Leu.  And let her understand the hopes she has, If she come speedilie—­

1 Ma.  All these are specified.

Leu.  And of the chain is sent her, And the rich stuff to make her shew more handsom here?

1 Maid.  All this is done, Madam.

Leu.  What have you dispatcht there?

2 Maid.  A letter to the Country maid, and’t please ye.

Leu.  A pretty girle, but peevish, plaguy peevish:  Have ye bought the embroydered gloves, and that purse for her, And the new Curle?

2 Maid.  They are ready packt up Madam.

Leu.  Her maiden-head will yield me; let me see now; She is not fifteen they say:  for her complexion—­ Cloe, Cloe, Cloe, here, I have her, Cloe, the Daughter of a Country Gentleman; Her age upon fifteen:  now her complexion, A lovely brown; here ’tis; eyes black and rolling, The body neatly built:  she strikes a Lute well, Sings most inticingly, these helps consider’d, Her maiden-head will amount to some three hundred, Or three hundred and fifty Crowns, ’twill bear it handsomly.  Her Father’s poor, some little share deducted, To buy him a hunting Nag; I, ’twill be pretty.  Who takes care of the Merchants Wife?