[SCENE 3.]

Enter Courtwell and Sister.

Sis. Ile walke no further; if you have a secret To impart, you need not feare this place; the trees And hedges will not listen. What's the business? I hope your phlegmatick stock of verse is spent.

Cou. Why then in prose, the worst that I can speake in, I doe not love you, Lady.

Sis. How? you ha not Traind me thus farr to tell me that?

Cou. You are Of all your sex the poorest emptiest trifle, And one with whome tis most impossible I ere should change Affection; theres nothing To invite me too't, not so much as that Wee call a seeming reason, upon which All Love is built, seeming, I say, not it, My understanding Ladie.

Sis. You thinke I am very dull that you expound Your witt thus, but it needes no Comentator, Not by the Author, tis so very plaine; But to despise me most of all the sexe Is something oversaid. Though I affect No flattery, I hate uncivill Language. You do not meane to quarrell, now you have Betraid me to the feilds, and beat me, Sir?

Cou. What is there in your face more to attract mee Then that Red Cowes complexion? Why the Divell Do you thinke I should dote upon your person? That thing when she is stroak'd gives milke.

Sis. By that I understand all this revenge, because You thinke I did neglect you. Pray, sir, tell me, And tell me seriouslie, put the Case that I Should love you now, could not you love agen?

Cou. In troth I thinke I could not.

Sis. You do but thinke.

Cou. Nay, ile bind it with an oath before the parish, And when I have given my reasons, too, the Clarke Shall praise me fort and say Amen.

Sis. What reasons?

Cou. I shall be very loath To say your eyes are twinckling Starres agen, Your lipps twin cherries and out blush the rubie, Your azure veines vye beauty with the Saphire Or that your swelling breasts are hills of Ivory, Pillowes for Jove to rest his amorous head, When my owne Conscience tells me that Bunhill Is worth a hundred on 'em, and but Higate Compar'd with 'em is Paradice. I thanke you; Ile not be vext and squeez'd about a rime Or in a verse that's blanke, as I must be, Whine love unto[268] a tune.

Sis. This all your feare?

Cou. No, I doe feare to loose my tyme, my businesse, And my witts too, jolting them all away To waite on you in prouder Coaches.

Sis. Is this all?

Cou. To spend my selfe to nothing and be laugh'd at By all the world when I shall come at last To this reward for all my services, To bee your lay Court Chaplaine and say gravely A hastie grace before your windowes breakfast.

Sis. But how Came you thus cur'd? You were a passionate (I may say) foole, in hope you will deserve it. What phisick tooke you that hath thus restor'd you?

Cou. A little sack had power to cure this madnes.

Sis. I hope you are not sober yet, the humour May change when you ha slept.

Cou. Ile rather stick My Eyelids up with Sisters[269] thread and stare Perpetually.

Sis. Then you may see me agen.

Cou. I thinke I sha'not, unless it be to wonder, When you are in the Ivie bush, that face Cut upon Tafata, that creame and prunes, So many plums in white broth, that scutcheon of Pretence powderd with ermines. Now I looke upon't, With those black patches it does put me in mind Of a white soule with sinns upon't, and frights me. How sell you grapes? Your haire[270] does curle in bunches; You[r] lipps looke like the parsons glebe, full of Red, blew and yellow flowers; how they are chopt And looke like trenches made to draine the meadowe.

Sis. This rudenes Is beyond the manners of a gentleman.

Cou. I cannot helpe it, and I hope you thinke so.

Sis. I am confirm'd that now I am forsaken, But if your passion have not drownd all reason I pray let us part civilly.

Cou. With all my heart; I dare then take my leave, to[o].

Sis. Whoe's there?

Cou. Where?

Sis. Behind that tree?

Cou. You have no plott to accuse me for a rape? Twas at the worst but felony, for cherries That look'd as they had been a fortnight gather'd.

Sis. I know youle bring me home in Curtesie.

Cou. Not I, I wo' not trust my selfe; and you Will hardly meet a worse to interrupt you. Fare you well, Ladie.—Do you see that Bull?

Sis. Yes, Sir.

Cou. That is a happie beast

Sis. Why happie, sir?

Cou. He writes no verses to his Mistresse, is Not cosend nor forsworne to gett her favour, Bestowes no rings nor empties his Exchequer To appear still in new rich suites, but lives Free o' the stock of Nature, yet loves none. Like the great Turke he walkes in his Seraglio, And doth command which concubine best pleases; When he has done he falls to graze or sleepe, And makes as he had never knowne the Dun, White, Red or Brindled Cowe.

Sis. You are unmanly.

Cou. Nay, I know you will raile now; I shall like it. Call me a scurvy fellow, proud and saucie, An ill bred, crooked Clowne; ile here this rather Then live upon your pitty. And yet doe not; For, if you raile, too, men that know you can Dissemble, may beleeve you love me, and Tis not my ayme.

Sis. You are a fine man!

Cou. I am in my best clothes?

Sis. I perceave That tis truth now what the world saies of you, And yet tis strange.

Cou. 'Twere strange it should be otherwise.

Sis. You give your tongue a licence, nor will I hope Your malice should spare me abroad that have So prodigally abus'd a Ladies fame That deserv'd nobly from you; but you men Care not whose name you blast with a loose character, So you maintaine your pride of talke.

Cou. Howe's this? It is confess'd I have talk'd in my tyme And talk'd too much, but not too much of you; For I but seldome thought of such a woman: For any other—

Sis. Nay, sir, I am satisfied; You can talke your pleasure.

Cou. Have I not done it, too?

Sis. Yes, by your own report, and with a lady So much in vertue and in birth above you; And therefore I expect not—

Cou. Stay; this moves me. I never tooke a pleasure yet to lie With Ladies fames, or ever thought that sport Lay in the tongue. Such humours are for men That live by brothell offices: let me know Who hath traduc'd me to you thus, he shall Be knowne no more.

Sis. Ile not be guiltie, sir, Of any murder; when we meet agen, And you in better humour, I may tell you. So farewell, Gondarino,[271] nothing's lost When you turne Woman Hater. [Exit.

Cou. She has vext me. If we make Matrimony after this rate, The Divell is like to dance at our wedding. Ho!

Enter Device.

De. Hee's here, Alone too, and the place most opportune. How shall I beginne?—Mr. Courtwell, do you love Any friend of mine?

Cou. Not to my knowledge, Sir; I should be sorry.

De. Do not you love a gentlewoman?

Cou. If she be a friend of yours ile take the first Occasion to neglect her for your sake.

De. It will become your wisdome and your safety.

Cou. What mischiefe have done to your face?

De. My face?

Cou. You looke so scurvily; come hither, thou New Monster, with more feet then a Caterpiller; What tyme a day ist? you that move upon So many wheeles, say, Monsier, are you not A walkeing Clock? I have a mighty mind To see you tooke a peeces.

De. I doe not like this.— You wo'not put me, sir, together againe.

Cou. I wo'not take the paines. Why do you smile now?

De. At your conceite to thinke I was a Clock: I am a watch, I never strike.—Hee's valiant.

Cou. You have pretty colours there; are these your Mistresses?

De. If you did know the mistery you would applaud 'em. Have you read Livre de blason? What meane you?

Cou. I will bestow 'em, sir, upon some forehorse? They will become a countrey teame rarely.

De. Mor bleu! Why, you dare fight, it seemes, and I was told You were no Cavellier, a very dreame [droane?] A wedg for men to breake their swords upon. I shall never trust fame agen for your sake.

Cou. Thou never cosendst me.

De. I was never so illiterate in man.

Cou. For I did ever thinke thou durst not fence But at a complement; a glittering vapour, A thing of clothes and fitt for chambermaides To whet their witts upon, but now resolve Either to have your skin flead of or fight wo' me For troubling my present meditations.

De. Why, sir, if you be serious I shall quit That prejudice you have upon my valour. Looke you, sir, I can draw, and thus provok'd I dare chastise you, too. Cause I was merry I was not bound to feed your spleen eternally With laughter; yet I am not ignorant What an advantage, sir, your weapon gives you In length.

Cou. Wee'le change; why, this is honour in thee.

[They measure and Device getts both weapons.

De. Now, sir, keepe of.

Cou. Th'art not so base?

De. I never cosen'd you, do you remember? These two will guide me on the rope.

Cou. You meane to dance, then?

De. Yes, the Canaries,[272] but with quicker tyme Then you, I hope, can follow: thus I begin. Fa, la, la, &c. [Excurrit.

Cou. What a heathen Coward's this? how the rogue tripps like a fairie to the towne with 'em! He has been a footman, sure; I have not aire enough to overtake him, and twill be darke presently. If I loose the sight on him ile search the towne, and if I find him not there, pursue him with hue and cries and after hang him.

[Exit.