Fre. Thou shalt not go believe me, sweet Evanthe,
So high I will advance thee for this favour,
So rich and potent I will raise thy fortune,
And thy friends mighty.
Evan. Good your Grace be patient,
I shall make the worst honourable wench that ever was,
Shame your discretion, and your choice.
Fred. Thou shalt not.
Evan. Shall I be rich do you say, and glorious,
And shine above the rest, and scorn all beauties,
And mighty in command?
Fred. Thou shalt be any thing.
Eva. Let me be honest too, and then I'le thank ye.
Have you not such a title to bestow too?
If I prove otherwise, I would know but this, Sir;
Can all the power you have or all the riches,
But tye mens tongues up from discoursing of me,
Their eyes from gazing at my glorious folly,
Time that shall come, from wondering at my impudence,
And they that read my wanton life from curses?
Can you do this? have ye this Magick in ye?
This is not in your power, though you be a Prince, Sir,
No more than evil is in holy Angels,
Nor I, I hope: get wantonness confirm'd
By Act of Parliament an honesty,
And so receiv'd by all, I'le hearken to ye.
Heaven guide your Grace.
Fred. Evanthe, stay a little,
I'le no more wantonness, I'le marry thee.
Evan. What shall the Queen do?
Fred. I'le be divorced from her.
Eva. Can you tell why? what has she done against ye?
Has she contrived a Treason 'gainst your Person?
Abus'd your bed? does disobedience urge ye?