Mir. Has studied duel too, take heed, hee’l beat thee. 
Has frighted the old Justice into a fever;
I hope hee’l disinherit him too for an asse;
For though he be grave with yeeres, hee’s a great babie.

Cha. Doe not you think me mad? Ang. No certain, Sir, I have heard nothing from you but things excellent.

Cha. You looke upon my cloathes and laugh at me, My scurvie clothes! Ang. They have rich linings Sir.  I would your brother—­ Cha. His are gold and gawdie.

Ang. But touch ’em inwardlie, they smell of Copper.

Cha. Can ye love me?  I am an heire, sweet Ladie,
How ever I appeare a poore dependant;
Love you with honour, I shall love so ever;
Is your eye ambitious?  I may be a great man. 
Is’t wealth or lands you covet? my father must dye.

Mir. That was well put in, I hope hee’l take it deepely.

Cha. Old men are not immortal, as I take it;
Is it, you looke for, youth and handsomness? 
I doe confess my brother’s a handsome Gentleman,
But he shall give me leave to lead the way Ladie,
Can you love for love, and make that the reward? 
The old man shall not love his heapes of gold
With a more doting superstition,
Than Ile love you.  The young man his delights,
The merchant when he ploughs the angrie sea up,
And sees the mountaine billows failling on him,
As if all Elements, and all their angers
Were turn’d into one vow’d destruction;
Shall not with greater joy embrace his safetie. 
Wee’l live together like two wanton Vines,
Circling our soules and loves in one another,
Wee’l spring together and weel beare one fruit;
One joy shall make us smile, and one griefe mourne;
One age go with us, and one houre of death
Shall shut our eyes, and one grave make us happie.

Ang. And one hand scale the match, Ime yours for ever.

Lew. Nay, stay, stay, stay. Ang. Nay certainly, tis done Sir.

Bri. There was a contract. Ang. Onely conditional,
That if he had the Land, he had my love too;
This Gentleman’s the heire, and hee’ll maintaine it. 
Pray be not angrie Sir at what I say;
Or if you be, tis at your owne adventure. 
You have the out side of a pretty Gentleman,
But by my troth you[r] inside is but barren;
Tis not a face I onely am in love with,
Nor will I say your face is excellent,
A reasonable hunting face to Court the winde with;
Nor th’are not words unlesse they be well plac’d too,
Nor your sweete Dam-mes, nor your hired verses,
Nor telling me of Cloathes, nor Coach and horses,
No nor your visits each day in new suites,
Nor you[r] black patches you weare variouslie,
Some cut like starres, some in halfe Moones, some Lozenges,
(All which but shew you still a younger brother.)

Mir. Gramercie Wench, thou hast a noble soule too.