Clora. Who told you that?
Fran. I heard it.
Clora. Come, be friends,
The Souldier is a Mars, no more, we are all
Subject to slide away.
Fra. Nay, laugh on still.
Clor. No faith, thou art a good wench, and 'tis pity
Thou shouldst not be well quarried at thy entring,
Thou art so high flown for him: Look, who's there?
Enter Fabricio, and Jacomo.
Jac. Prethee go single, what should I do there?
Thou knowst I hate these visitations,
As I hate peace or perry.
Fab. Wilt thou never
Make a right man?
Jac. You make a right fool of me
To lead me up and down to visit women,
And be abus'd and laugh'd at; let me sta[rv]e
If I know what to say, unless I ask 'em
What their shooes cost?
Fab. Fye upon thee, coward,
Canst thou not sing?