Isa.  How dare you trust this fellow?

Const.  I must trust some body:  Gain has made him mine, and now fear will keep him faithful.

To them, BURR, FAILER, TIMOROUS, TRICE, and NONSUCH.

Fail.  Pray, my lord, take no pique at it:  ’Tis not given to all men to be confident:  Egad, you shall see Sir Timorous will redeem all upon the next occasion.

Non.  A raw miching boy.

Isa.  And what are you but an old boy of five and fifty?  I never knew any thing so humoursome—­I warrant you, Sir Timorous; I’ll speak for you.

Non.  Would’st thou have me be friends with him? for thy sake he shall only add five hundred a-year to her jointure, and I’ll be satisfied:  Come you hither, sir.

[Here TRICE and NONSUCH and TIMOROUS talk privately; BURR with FAILER apart, CONSTANCE with ISABELLA.

Const.  You’ll not find your account in this trick to get Failer beaten; ’tis too palpable and open.

Isa.  I warrant you ’twill pass upon Burr for a time:  So my revenge and your interest will go on together.

Fail.  Burr, there’s mischief a-brewing, I know it by their whispering, I vow to gad:  Look to yourself, their design is on you; for my part, I am a person that am above ’em.

Tim. to Trice.  But then you must speak for me, Mr Trice:  and you too, my lord.

Non.  If you deny’t again, I’ll beat you; look to’t, boy.

Trice.  Come on; I’ll make the bargain.

Isa.  You were ever good in a flesh-market.

Trice.  Come, you little harlotry; what satisfaction can you give me for running away before the ruffs came in?

Const.  Why, I left you to ’em, that ever invite your own belly to the greatest part of all your feasts.

Trice.  I have brought you a knight here, huswife, with a plentiful fortune to furnish out a table; and what would you more?  Would you be an angel in heaven?

Isa.  Your mind’s ever upon your belly.

Trice.  No:  ’tis sometimes upon yours:  But, what say’st thou to sir Timorous, little Constance?

Const.  Would you have me married to that king Midas’s face?

Trice.  Midas me no Midas; he’s a wit; he understands eating and drinking well:  Poeta coquus, the heathen philosopher could tell you that.

Const.  Come on, sir:  what’s your will with me? [Laughs.

Tim.  Why, madam, I could only wish we were a little better acquainted, that we might not laugh at one another so.

Const.  If the fool puts forward, I am undone.

Tim.  Fool!—­do you know me, madam?

Const.  You may see I know you, because I call you by your name.