Vir. The face o'th' Mask is alter'd.
Asc. What will she do?
Vir. Do what she can, I care not.
Asc. She looks on you Sir.
Vir. Rather she looks through me,
But yet she stirs me not.
Mart. Poor wretched slaves,
Why do you live? or if ye hope for mercy,
Why do not you houl out, and fill the hold
With lamentations, cries, and base submissions,
Worthy our scorn?
Vir. Madam, you are mistaken;
We are no slaves to you, but to blind fortune;
And if she had her eyes, and durst be certain,
Certain our friend, I would not bow unto her;
I would not cry, nor ask so base a mercy:
If you see any thing in our appearance,
Worthy your sexes softness and your own glory:
Do it for that, and let that good reward it:
We cannot beg.
Mart. I'll make you beg, and bow too.
Vir. Madam for what?
Mart. For life; and when you hope it,
Then will I laugh and triumph on your baseness.