Val. You have parted us,
What should I do with that I cannot use Sir?
Fred. 'Tis well consider'd, let me have the Lady,
And thou shalt see how nobly I'll befriend thee,
How all this difference—
Val. Will she come do you think, Sir?
Fred. She must be wrought, I know she is too modest,
And gently wrought, and cunningly.
Val. 'Tis fit, Sir.
Fred. And secretly it must be done.
Val. As thought.
Fred. I'll warrant ye her honour shall be fair still,
No soil nor stain shall appear on that, Valerio,
You see a thousand that bear sober faces,
And shew of as inimitable modesties;
You would be sworn too that they were pure Matrons,
And most chaste maids: and yet to augment their fortunes,
And get them noble friends—
Val. They are content, Sir,
In private to bestow their Beauties on 'em.
Fred. They are so, and they are wise, they know no want for't,
Nor no eye sees they want their honesties.