Mir. Thou art a kind of Prophet,
The Woman's well again, and would have gull'd me;
Well, excellent well: and not a taint upon her.
Bel. Did not I tell ye? Let 'em be what can be;
Saints, Devils, any thing, they will abuse us;
Thou wert an Ass to believe her so long, a Coxcomb;
Give 'em a minute they'll abuse whole millions.
Mir. And am not I a rare Physician, Gentlemen,
That can cure desperate mad minds?
De Gar. Be not insolent.
Mir. Well, go thy waies: from this hour, I disclaim thee,
Unless thou hast a trick above this: then I'le love thee.
Ye owe me for your Cure; pray have a care of her,
For fear she fall into Relapse: come Belleur
We'll set up Bills, to Cure Diseased Virgins.
Bel. Shall we be merry?
Mir. Yes.
Bel. But I'le no more projects;
If we could make 'em mad, it were some mastery. [Exeunt.
Lil. I am glad she is well again.
Ros. So am I, certain,
Be not ashamed.