Ros. We'll go a brave way; fear not:
A safe, and sure way too: and yet a by-way,
I must confess I have a great mind to be married.
Ll. So have I too, a grudging of good-will that way;
And would as fain be dispatch'd. But this Monsieur Quicksilver.
Ros. No, no: we'll bar him, by, and Main: Let him trample;
There is no safety in his Surquedrie:
An Army-Royal of women, are too few for him,
He keeps a Journal of his Gentleness,
And will go near to print his fair dispatches,
And call it his triumph over time and women:
Let him pass out of memory: what think ye
Of his two Companions?
Lil. Pinac methinks is reasonable;
A little modestie he has brought home with him,
And might be taught in time some handsom duty.
Ros. They say he is a wencher too.
Lil. I like him better:
A free light touch or two becomes a Gentleman,
And sets him seemly off: so he exceed not,
But keep his compass, clear he may be lookt at;
I would not marry a man that must be taught,
And conjur'd up with kisses; the best game
Is plaid still by the best Gamesters.
Ros. Fie upon thee!
What talk hast thou?
Lil. Are not we alone, and merry?
Why should we be asham'd to speak what we think? thy Gentleman
The tall fat fellow; he that came to see thee.
Ros. Is't not a goodly man?