Fount. This is malice.

Val. When she lies with your land, and not with you, grows great with joyntures, and is brought to bed with all the state you have, you’le find this certain; but is it come to pass you must marry, is there no buff will hold you?

Bel. Grant it be so.

Val. Then chuse the tamer evil, take a maid, a maid not worth a penny; make her yours, knead her, and mould her yours, a maid worth nothing, there’s a vertuous spell in that word nothing; a maid makes conscience of half a Crown a week for pins and puppits, a maid will be content with one Coach and two Horses, not falling out because they are not matches; with one man satisfied, with one rein guided, with one faith, one content, one bed, aged she makes the wise, preserves the fame and issue; a widow is a Christmas-box that sweeps all.

Fount. Yet all this cannot sink us.

Val. You are my friends, and all my loving friends, I spend your mony, yet I deserve it too, you are my friends still, I ride your horses, when I want I sell ’em; I eat your meat, help to wear her linnen, sometimes I make you drunk, and then you seal, for which I’le do you this commodity, be ruled, and let me try her, I will discover her, the truth is, I will never leave to trouble her, till I see through her, then if I find her worthy.

Hare. This was our meaning Valentine.

Val. ’Tis done then, I must want nothing.

Hare. Nothing but the woman.

Val. No jealousie; for when I marry, the Devil must be wiser than I take him; and the flesh foolisher:  come let’s to dinner, and when I am well whetted with wine, have at her. [Exeunt.

Enter Isabella, and Luce.

Isab. But art thou sure?

Luce. No surer than I heard.

Hare. That it was that flouting fellows Brother?

Luce. Yes, Shorthose told me so.

Hare. He did searc[h] out the truth?

Luce. It seems he did.

Har. Prethee Luce call him hither, if he be no worse, I never repent my pity, now sirra, what was he we sent you after, the Gentleman i’th’ black?

Enter Shorthose.

Short. I’th’ torn black?

Isab. Yes, the same Sir.

Short. What would your Worship with him?

Isab. Why, my Worship would know his name, and what he is.

Short. ’Is nothing, he is a man, and yet he is no man.

Isab. You must needs play the fool.

Short. ’Tis my profession.

Isab. How is he a man, and no man?

Short. He’s a begger, only the sign of a man, the bush pull’d down, which shows the house stands emptie.

Isab. What’s his calling?

Short. They call him begger.