Lil. Let Andrew alone with his owne tillage,
Hee’s tough, and can manure it. Bri. Y’are a queane,
A scoffing jeering quean. Lil. It may be so, but
I’me sure, Ile nere be yours. Bri. Doe not provoke me,
If thou do’st, Ile have my Farm againe, and turne
Thee out a begging. Lil. Though you have the will,
And want of honestie to deny your Deed, Sir,
Yet I hope Andrew has got so much learning
From my young Master, as to keep his own;
At the worst, Ile tell a short tale to the Judges,
For what grave ends you sign’d your Lease, and on
What termes you would revoke it. Bri. Whore thou dar’st not. 
Yeeld or Ile have thee whipt; How my bloud boiles,
As if t’were ore a furnace! Mir. I shall coole it.

Bri. Yet gentle Lilly, pitie and forgive me, Ile be a friend t’ye, such a loving bountiful friend—­

Lil. To avoid suites in Law, I would grant a litle,
But should fierce Andrew know it, what would become
Of me? And. A whore, a whore! Bri. Nothing but well Wench,
I will put such a strong bit in his mouth,
As thou shalt ride him how thou wilt, my Lilly: 
Nay, he shall hold the doore, as I will worke him,
And thank thee for the office. Mir. Take heed Andrew,
These are shrewd temptations. And. Pray you know
Your Cue, and second me Sir; By your Worships favour.

Bri. Andrew! And. I come in time to take possession
Of th’ office you assigne me; hold the doore,
Alas ’tis nothing for a simple man
To stay without when a deepe understanding
Holds conference within, say with his wife: 
A trifle Sir, I know I hold my farme
In Cuckolds Tenure:  you are Lord o’the soile Sir,
Lilly is a Weft, a Straie shee’s yours, to use Sir,
I claime no interest in her. Bri. Art thou serious? 
Speak honest Andrew, since thou hast oreheard us,
And wink at small faults, man; I’me but a pidler,
A little will serve my turne; thou’lt finde enough
When I’ve my bellyfull; wilt thou be private
And silent? And. By all meanes, Ile onely have
A Ballad made of’t, sung to some lewd Tune,
And the name of it shall be Justice Trap,
It will sell rarely with your Worships name,
And Lillies on the top. Bri. Seek not the ruine
O’ my reputation, Andrew. And. Tis for your credit,
Monsieur Brisac printed in capital letters,
Then pasted upon all the posts in Paris.

Bri. No mercy, Andrew? And. O, it will proclaim you From th’ Citie to the Court, and prove sport royal.

Bri. Thou shall keep thy Farm. Mir. He does afflict him rarely.

And. You trouble me.  Then his intent arriving, The vizard of his hypocrisie poll’d off To the Judge criminal. Bri. O, I am undone.