Fit. But ſhee will ne’r be capable, ſhee is not So much as comming, Madame; I know not how 180 She loſes all her opportunities With hoping to be forc’d. I’haue entertain’d He ſhews his Pug. A gentleman, a younger brother, here, Whom I would faine breed vp, her Eſcudero, Againſt ſome expectation’s that I haue, 185 And ſhe’ll not countenance him.
Wit. What’s his name?
Fit. Diuel, o’ Darbi-ſhire.
Eit. Bleſſe us from him!
Tay. Diuell? Call him De-uile, ſweet Madame.
Mrs. Fi. What you pleaſe, Ladies.
Tay. De-uile’s a prettier name!
Eit. And ſounds, me thinks, As it came in with the Conquerour—
Man. Ouer ſmocks! 190 What things they are? That nature ſhould be at leaſure Euer to make ’hem! my woing is at an end.
Manly goes out with indignation.