Dor. The same; 'tis but a minutes reading,
And as we look on shapes of painted Devils,
Which for the present may disturb our fancy,
But with the next new object lose 'em, so
If this be foul, ye may forget it, 'pray.
Mary. Have ye seen it, friend?
Dor. I will not lie; I have not,
But I presume, so much he honours you,
The worst part of himself was cast away
When to his best part he writ this.
Mary. For your sake,
Not that I any way shall like his scribling.
Alice. A shrewd dissembling Quean.
Dor. I thank ye, dear friend,
I know she loves him.
Alice. Yes, and will not lose him,
Unless he leap into the Moon, believe that,
And then she'l scramble too; young wenches loves
Are like the course of quartans, they may shift
And seem to cease sometimes, and yet we see
The least distemper pulls 'em back again,
And seats 'em in their old course; fear her not,
Unless he be a Devil.
Mary. Now Heaven bless me.
Dor. What has he writ?
Mary. Out, out upon him.