Luce. E’ne as you are a woman Mistress.

Isab. This I allow as good and Physical sometime, these meetings, and for the cheering of the heart; but Luce, to have your own turn served, and to your friend to be a dog-bolt.

Luce. I confess it Mistress.

Isab. As you have made my sister jealous of me, and foolishly, and childishly pursued it, I have found out your haunt, and traced your purposes; for which mine honour suffers; your best waies must be applied to bring her back again, and seriously and suddenly, that so I may have a means to clear my self, and she a fair opinion of me, else you peevish—­

Luce. My power and prayers Mistress.

Isab. What’s the matter?

Enter Shorthose, and Widow.

Short. I have been with the Gentleman, he has it, much good may do him with it.

Wid. Come, are you ready? you love so to delay time, the day grows on.

Isab. I have sent for a few trifles, when those are come; And now I know your reason.

Wid. Know your own honour then, about your business, see the Coach ready presently, I’le tell you more then.

[Ex. Luce, and Shorthose.

And understand it well, you must not think your sister so tender eyed as not to see your follies, alas I know your heart, and must imagine, and truly too; ’tis not your charitie can coin such sums to give away as you have done, in that you have no wisdom Isabel, no nor modesty, where nobler uses are at home; I tell you, I am ashamed to find this in your years, far more in your discretion, none to chuse but things for pity, none to seal your thoughts on, but one of no abiding, of no name; nothing to bring you to but this, cold and hunger:  A jolly Joynture sister, you are happy, no mony, no not ten shillings.

Isab. You search nearly.

Wid. I know it as I know your folly, one that knows not where he shall eat his next meal, take his rest, unless it be i’th’ stocks; what kindred has he, but a more wanting Brother, or what vertues.

Isab. You have had rare intelligence, I see, sister.

Wid. Or say the man had vertue, is vertue in this age a full inheritance? what Joynture can he make you, Plutarchs Morals, or so much penny rent in the small Poets? this is not well, ’tis weak, and I grieve to know it.

Isab. And this you quit the town for?

Wid. Is’t not time?

Isab. You are better read in my affairs than I am, that’s all I have to answer, I’le go with you, and willingly, and what you think most dangerous, I’le sit laugh at.  For sister ’tis not folly but good discretion governs our main fortunes.

Wid. I am glad to hear you say so.

Isa. I am for you.

Enter Shorthose, and Humphrey, with riding rods.