Ori. By your leave, sweet ladies;
And all our fortunes arrive at our own wishes!

Lil. Amen, amen!

Lug. I must borrow your man.

Lil. Pray take him;
He is within: To do her good, take anything,
Take us and all.

Lug. No doubt, ye may find takers;
And so we’ll leave ye to your own disposes.

[Exeunt Lugier and Oriana

Lil. Now, which way, wench?

Ros. We’ll go a brave way, fear not;
A safe and sure way too; and yet a bye-way.
I must confess, I have a great mind to be married.

Lil. So have I too a grudging of good-will that way;
And would as fain be dispatch’d. But this monsieur Quicksilver—

Ros. No, no; we’ll bar him, bye and main: Let him trample:
There is no safety in his surquedry:
An army- royal of women are too few for him;
He keeps a journal of his gentleness,
And will go near to print his fair dispatches,
And call it his triumph over time and women:
Let him pass out of memory! What think you
Of his two companions?

Lil. Pinac, methinks, is reasonable;
A little modesty he has brought home with him,
And might be taught, in time, some handsome duty.

Ros. They say, he is a wencher too.

Lil. I like him better;
A free light touch or two becomes a gentleman,
And sets him seemly off: So he exceed not,
But keep his compass clear, he may be look’d at.
I would not marry a man that must be taught,
And conjured up with kisses; the best game
Is play’d still by the best gamesters.

Ros. Fy upon thee!
What talk hast thou?

Lil. Are not we alone, and merry?
Why should we be ashamed to speak what we think? Thy gentleman,
The tall fat fellow, he that came to see thee—

Ros. Is’t not a goodly man?

Lil. A wondrous goodly!
He has weight enough, I warrant thee: Mercy upon me,
What a serpent wilt thou seem under such a St. George!

Ros. Thou art a fool! Give me a man brings mettle,
Brings substance with him, needs no broths to lare him.
These little fellows show like fleas in boxes,
Hop up and down, and keep a stir to vex us:
Give me the puissant pike; take you the small shot.

Lil. Of a great thing, I have not seen a duller:
Therefore, methinks, sweet sister—

Ros. Peace, he’s modest;
A bashfulness; which is a point of grace, wench:
But, when these fellows come to moulding, sister,
To heat, and handling.—As I live, I like him;
And, methinks, I could form him.

Enter MIRABEL.

Lil. Peace! the fire-drake.