Abig.  O will you kill me?

Rog.  I do not think I can, Y’are like a Copy-hold with nine lives in’t.

Abig.  You were wont to bear a Christian fear about you:  For your own worships sake.

Rog.  I was a Christian fool then:  Do you remember what a dance you led me? how I grew qualm’d in love, and was a dunce? could expound but once a quarter, and then was out too:  and then out of the stinking stir you put me in, I prayed for my own issue.  You do remember all this?

Abig.  O be as then you were!

Rog.  I thank you for it, surely I will be wiser Abigal:  and as the Ethnick Poet sings, I will not lose my oyl and labour too.  Y’are for the worshipfull I take it Abigal.

Abig.  O take it so, and then I am for thee!

Rog.  I like these tears well, and this humbling also, they are Symptomes of contrition.  If I should fall into my fit again, would you not shake me into a quotidian Coxcombe?  Would you not use me scurvily again, and give me possets with purging Confets in’t?  I tell thee Gentlewoman, thou hast been harder to me, than a long pedigree.

Abig.  O Curate cure me:  I will love thee better, dearer, longer:  I will do any thing, betray the secrets of the main house-hold to thy reformation.  My Ladie shall look lovingly on thy learning, and when true time shall point thee for a Parson, I will convert thy egges to penny custards, and thy tith goose shall graze and multiply.

Rog.  I am mollified, as well shall testifie this faithfull kiss, and have a great care Mistris Abigal how you depress the Spirit any more with your rebukes and mocks:  for certainly the edge of such a follie cuts it self.

Abigal.  O Sir, you have pierc’d me thorow.  Here I vow a recantation to those malicious faults I ever did against you.  Never more will I despise your learning, never more pin cards and cony tails upon your Cassock, never again reproach your reverend nightcap, and call it by the mangie name of murrin, never your reverend person more, and say, you look like one of Baals Priests in a hanging, never again when you say grace laugh at you, nor put you out at prayers:  never cramp you more, nor when you ride, get Sope and Thistles for you.  No my Roger, these faults shall be corrected and amended, as by the tenour of my tears appears.

Rog.  Now cannot I hold if I should be hang’d, I must crie too.  Come to thine own beloved, and do even what thou wilt with me sweet, sweet Abigal.  I am thine own for ever:  here’s my hand, when Roger proves a recreant, hang him i’th’ Bel-ropes.

Enter Lady, and Martha.

Lady.  Why how now Master Roger, no prayers down with you to night?  Did you hear the bell ring?  You are courting:  your flock shall fat well for it.