Isa. I am paid for fooling.

Lu. Must every slight companion that can purchase a shew of poverty and beggerly planet fall under your compassion?

Lane. Here’s a new matter.

Luce. Nay, you are served but too well, here he staies yet, yet as I live.

Fran. How her face alters on me!

Luce. Out of a confidence I hope.

Isab. I am glad on’t.

Fran. How do you gentle Lady?

Isab. Much ashamed Sir, (but first stand further off me, y’are infectious) to find such vanitie, nay almost impudence, where I believ’d a worth:  is this your thanks, the gratitude you were so mad to make me, your trim counsel Gentlemen?

Lane. What, Lady?

Isab. Take your device again, it will not serve Sir, the woman will not bite, you are finely cozened, drop it no more for shame.

Luce. Do you think you are here Sir amongst your wast-coateers, your base wenches that scratch at such occasions? you are deluded:  This is a Gentlewoman of a noble house, born to a better fame than you can build her, and eyes above your pitch.

Fran. I do acknowledge—­

Isab. Then I beseech you Sir, what could ’see, (speak boldly, and speak truly, shame the Devil,) in my behaviour of such easiness that you durst venture to do this?

Fran. You amaze me, this Ring is none of mine, nor did I drop it.

Luce. I saw you drop it, Sir.

Isab. I took it up too, still looking when your modesty should miss it, why, what a childish part was this?

Fran. I vow.

Isab. Vow me no vowes, he that dares do this, has bred himself to boldness, to forswear too; there take your gew-gaw, you are too much pampered, and I repent my part, as you grow older grow wiser if you can, and so farewel Sir.

[Exeunt Isabella, and Luce.

Lan. Grow wiser if you can? she has put it to you, ’tis a rich Ring, did you drop it?

Fran. Never, ne’re saw it afore, Lance.

Lan. Thereby hangs a tail then:  what slight she makes to catch her self! look up Sir, you cannot lose her if you would, how daintily she flies upon the Lure, and cunningly she makes her stops! whistle and she’l come to you.

Fran. I would I were so happy.

Lan. Maids are Clocks, the greatest Wheel they show, goes slowest to us, and make’s hang on tedious hopes; the lesser, which are concealed, being often oyl’d with wishes, flee like desires, and never leave that motion, till the tongue strikes; she is flesh, blood and marrow, young as her purpose, and soft as pity; no Monument to worship, but a mould to make men in, a neat one, and I know how e’re she appears now, which is near enough, you are stark blind if you hit not soon at night; she would venture forty pounds more but to feel a Flea in your shape bite her:  drop no more Rings forsooth, this was the prettiest thing to know her heart by.