Bri. Nay then, my Lord you go too far, and tax him
Whose innocencie understands not what feare is;
If your unconstant daughter will not dwell
On certainties, must you thenceforth conclude,
That I am fickle?  What have I omitted,
To make good my integritie and truth? 
Nor can her lightnesse, nor your supposition
Cast an aspersion on me. Lew. I am wounded
In fact, nor can words cure it:  doe not trifle,
But speedilie, once more I doe repeate it,
Restore my daughter as I brought her hither. 
Or you shall heare from me in such a kinde,
As you will blush to answer. Bri. all the world
I think conspires to vex me, yet I will not
Torment my selfe; some spriteful mirth must banish
The rage and melancholie which hath almost choak’d me,
T’a knowing man tis Physick, and tis thought on,
One merrie houre Ile have in spight of fortune,
To cheare my heart, and this is that appointed,
This night Ile hugge my Lilly in mine armes,
Provocatives are sent before to cheare me;
We old men need ’em, and though we pay deare,
For our stolne pleasures, so it be done securely;
The charge much like a sharp sawce gives ’m relish. 
Well honest Andrew, I gave you a farme,
And it shall have a beacon to give warning
To my other Tenants when the Foe approaches;
And presently, you being bestowed else where,
Ile graffe it with dexteritie on your forehead;
Indeed I will Lilly.  I come poore Andrew. Exit.

Actus IV.  Scaena II.

      Enter Miramont, Andrew.

Do they chafe roundly? And. As they were rubb’d with soap, Sir,
And now they sweare alowd, now calme again,
Like a ring of bells whose sound the wind still alters,
And then they sit in councel what to doe,
And then they jar againe what shall be done;
They talke of Warrants from the Parliament,
Complaints to the King, and forces from the Province,
They have a thousand heads in a thousand minutes,
Yet nere a one head worth a head of garlick.

Mir. Long may they chafe, and long may we laugh at ’em,
A couple of pure puppies yok’d together. 
But what sayes the young Courtier Master Eustace,
And his two warlike friends? And. They say but little,
How much they think I know not; they looke ruefully,
As if they had newly come from a vaulting house,
And had beene quite shot through ’tween winde and water
By a she Dunkirke, and had sprung a leake, Sir. 
Certaine my master was too blame. Mir. Why Andrew?

And. To take away the Wench oth’ sudden from him,
And give him no lawful warning, he is tender;
And of a young girles constitution, Sir,
Readie to get the greene sickness with conceit;
Had he but tane his leave innavailing language,
Or bought an Elegie of his condolement,
That th’ world might have tane notice, he had beene
An Asse, ’t had beene some favour. Mir. Thou sayest true,
Wise Andrew, but these Schollars are such things
When they can prattle. And. Very parlous things Sir.