Ran. Why so, Coxcomb?
Dar. Because you took such Pains to put your self into my hands.
Ran. Gad, if your Heart were but half so true as your Guess, we should conclude a Peace before Bacon and the Council will—besides, this thing whines for Friendly, and there’s no hopes. To Chrisante.
Dar. Give me thy Hand, Widow, I am thine—and so entirely, I will never—be drunk out of thy Company:—Dunce is in my Tent,—prithee let’s in and bind the Bargain.
Ran. Nay, faith, let’s see the Wars at an end first.
Dar. Nay, prithee take me in the humour, while thy Breeches are on—for I never lik’d thee half so well in Petticoats.
Ran. Lead on, General, you give me good incouragement to wear them.
Exeunt.