Fred. I still told ye John
Your whoring must come home; I counsell'd ye:
But where no grace is—
John. 'Tis none o' mine, man.
Fred. Answer the Parish so.
John. Cheated introth:
Peeping into a house, by whom I know not,
Nor where to find the place again: no Frederick,
Had I but kist the ring for't; 'tis no poor one,
That's my best comfort, for't has brought about it
Enough to make it man.
Fred. Where is't?
John. At home.
Fred. A saving voyage: But what will you say Signior,
To him that searching out your serious worship,
Has met a stranger fortune?
John. How, good Frederick?
A militant girle now to this boy would hit it?
Fred. No, mine's a nobler venture: What do you think Sir
Of a distressed Lady, one whose beauty
Would oversell all Italy?
John. Where is she—