Mart. Wilt thou for life sake?
Vir. No, I know your subtilty.
Mart. For honor sake?
Vir. I will not be a Pageant,
My mind was ever firm, and so I'll lose it.
Mart. I'll starve thee to it.
Vir. I'll starve my self, and cross it.
Mart. I'll lay thee on such miseries—
Vir. I'll wear 'em,
And with that wantonness, you do your Bracelets.
Mart. I'll be a month a killing thee.
Vir. Poor Lady,
I'll be a month a dying then: what's that?
There's many a Calenture out-does your cruelty.