Lil. I have seen a fairer; yet
She is well.

Ros. Her clothes sit handsome too.

Lil. She dresses prettily.

Ros. And, by my faith, she’s rich; she looks still sweeter.
A well-bred woman, I warrant her.

Lil. Do you hear, sir?
May I crave this gentlewoman’s name?

Pinac. Mariana, lady.

Lil. I will not say I owe you a quarrel, monsieur,
For making me your stale! A noble gentleman
Would have had more courtesy, at least more faith,
Than to turn off his mistress at first trial:
You know not what respect I might have show’d you;
I find you have worth.

Pinac. I cannot stay to answer you;
You see my charge. I am beholding to you
For all your merry tricks you put upon me,
Your bobbs, and base accounts: I came to love you,
To woo you, and to serve you; I am much indebted to you
For dancing me off my legs, and then for walking me,
For telling me strange tales I never heard of,
More to abuse me; for mistaking me,
When you both knew I was a gentleman,
And one deserved as rich a match as you are!

Lil. Be not so bitter, sir.

Pinac. You see this lady:
She is young enough, and fair enough, to please me;
A woman of a loving mind, a quiet,
And one that weighs the worth of him that loves her;
I am content with this, and bless my fortune:
Your curious wits, and beauties—

Lil. ’Faith, see me once more.

Pinac. I dare not trouble you.

Lil. May I speak to your lady?

Pinac. I pray you content yourself: I know you are bitter,
And, in your bitterness, you may abuse her;
Which, if she comes to know (for she understands you not)
It may breed such a quarrel to your kindred,
And such an indiscretion fling on you too
(For she is nobly friended)—

Lil. I could eat her!

[Aside.

Pinac. Rest as ye are, a modest noble gentlewoman,
And afford your honest neighbours some of your prayers.

[Exeunt Pinac, Mariana, and Attendants.

Mir. What think you now?

Lil. ’Faith, she’s a pretty whiting;
She has got a pretty catch too!

Mir. You are angry,
Monstrous angry now, grievously angry;
And the pretty heart does swell now!

Lil. No, in troth, sir.

Mir. And it will cry anon, “A pox upon it! ”
And it will curse itself, and eat no meat, lady;
And it will sigh!