Wid. O Sister will you bar thankfulness?

Isa. Dogs dance for meat, would ye have men do worse? for they can speak, cry out like Wood-mongers, good deeds by the hundreds, I did it that my best friend should not know it, wine and vain glory does as much as I else, if you will force my merit, against my meaning, use it in well bestowing it, in shewing it came to be a benefit, and was so; and not examining a Woman did it, or to what end, in not believing sometimes your self, when drink and stirring conversation may ripen strange perswasions.

Fran. Gentle Lady, I were a base receiver of a courtesie, and you a worse disposer, were my nature unfurnished of these fore-sights.  Ladies honours were ever in my thoughts, unspotted Crimes, their good deeds holy Temples, where the incense burns not; to common eyes your fears are vertuous, and so I shall preserve ’em.

Isa. Keep but this way, and from this place to tell me so, you have paid me; and so I wish you see all fortune. [Exit.

Wid. Fear not, the Woman will be thanked, I do not doubt it.  Are you so crafty, carry it so precisely? this is to wake my fears, or to abuse me, I shall look narrowly:  despair not Gentlemen, there is an hour to catch a Woman in, if you be wise, so, I must leave you too; Now will I go laugh at my Suitors. [Exit.

Lan. Sir, what courage?

Fran. This Woman is a founder, and cites Statutes to all her benefits.

Lan. I never knew yet, so few years and so cunning, yet believe me she has an itch, but how to make her confess it, for it is a crafty Tit, and plays about you, will not bite home, she would fain, but she dares not; carry your self but so discreetly, Sir, that want or wantonness seem not to search you, and you shall see her open.

Fran. I do love her, and were I rich, would give two thousand pound to wed her wit but one hour, oh ’tis a Dragon, and such a spritely way of pleasure, ha Lance.

Lan. Your ha Lance broken once, you would cry, ho, ho, Lance.

Fran. Some leaden landed Rogue will have this wench now, when all’s done, some such youth will carry her, and wear her, greasie out like stuff, some Dunce that knows no more but Markets, and admires nothing but a long charge at Sizes:  O the fortunes!

Enter Isabel and Luce.

Lan. Comfort your self.

Luce. They are here yet, and alone too, boldly upon’t; nay, Mistress, I still told you, how ’twould find your trust, this ’tis to venture your charity upon a boy.

Lan. Now, what’s the matter? stand fast, and like your self.

Isa. Prethee no more Wench.

Luce. What was his want to you?

Isa. ’Tis true.

Luce. Or misery, or say he had been i’th’ Cage, was there no mercy to look abroad but yours?