Bel. I am founder'd,
And some shall rue the setting of me on.
Mir. Ha? so bookish, Lady, is it possible?
Turn'd holy at the heart too? I'le be hang'd then:
Why this is such a feat, such an activity,
Such fast and loose: a veyl too for your Knavery?
O dio, dio!
Ros. What do you take me for, Sir?
Mir. An hypocrite, a wanton, a dissembler,
How e're ye seem, and thus ye are to be handled.
Mark me Belleur, and this you love, I know it.
Ros. Stand off, bold Sir.
Mir. You wear good Cloaths to this end,
Jewels, love Feasts, and Masques.
Ros. Ye are monstrous saucy.
Mir. All this to draw on fools? and thus, thus Lady,
Ye are to be lull'd.
Bel. Let her alone, I'le swinge ye else,
I will 'faith; for though I cannot skill o'this matter
My self, I will not see another do it before me,
And do it worse.
Ros. Away, ye are a vain thing;
You have travell'd far, Sir, to return again
A windy and poor Bladder: you talk of Women,
That are not worth the favour of a common one;
The grace of her grew in an Hospital:
Against a thousand such blown fooleries
I am able to maintain good Womens honours,
Their freedoms, and their fames, and I will do it.