Leon. 'Tis strange a waiting-woman,
In her condition apt to yield, should hold out,
A man of your place, reverend Beard and shape,
Besieging her.
Mal. You might add too my wealth,
Which she contemns, five hundred Crowns per annum,
For which I have ventur'd hard, my Conscience knows it,
Not thought upon, though offer'd for a Joynture;
This Chain which my Lords Pesants worship, flouted;
My solemn hums and ha's, the servants quake at,
No Rhetorick with her; every hour she hangs out
Some new Flag of defiance to torment me;
Last Lent, my Lady call'd me her Poor John,
But now I am grown a walking Skeleton,
You may see through, and through me.
Leon. Indeed you are much faln away.
Mal. I am a kind of nothing,
As she hath made me; Love's a terrible Clyster,
And if some Cordial of her favours help not,
I shall like an Italian, dye backward,
And breathe my last the wrong way.
Leon. As I live, you have my pity; but this is cold comfort,
And in a friend lip-physick; and now I think on't,
I should do more, and will, so you deny not
Your self the means of comfort.
Mal. I'll be hang'd first; one dram of't I beseech you.
Leon. You are not jealous of any mans access to her?
Mal. I would not receive the Dor, but as a bosome friend
You shall direct me, still provided that
I understand who is the man, and what
His purpose, that pleads for me.
Leon. By all means:
First, for the undertaker, I am he;
The means that I will practise, thus—
Mal. Pray you forward.