Luce. What makes you think of that, Sir?
Hum. Even that face,
For stealing Rabbets whilome in that place,
God Cupid, or the Keeper, I know not whether,
Unto my cost and charges brought you thither,
And there began.
Lu[ce]. Your game, Sir.
Hum. Let no game,
Or any thing that tendeth to the same,
Be evermore remembred, thou fair killer
For whom I sate me down and brake my Tiller.
Wife. There's a kind Gentleman, I warrant you, when will you do as much for me George?
Luce. Beshrew me Sir, I am sorry for your losses,
But as the proverb says, I cannot cry,
I would you had not seen me.
Hum. So would I.
Unless you had more maw to do me good.
Luce. Why, cannot this strange passion be withstood,
Send for a Constable and raise the Town.
Hum. Oh no, my valiant love will batter down
Millions of Constables, and put to flight,
Even that great Watch of Midsummer day at night.
Luce. Beshrew me, Sir, 'twere good I yielded then,
Weak Women cannot hope, where valiant men
Have no resistance.