Luc. Grant that, that likes ye best, what would ye do, then?
Mir. What would I do? certainly I am no baby,
Nor brought up for a Nun; hark in thine ear.
Luc. Fie, fie, Sir.
Mir. I would get a brave boy on thee,
A warlike boy.
Luc. Sure we shall get ill Christians.
Mir. We'll mend 'em in the breeding then.
Luc. Sweet Master.
Col. Never belief in woman come near me more.
Luc. My best and noblest Sir, if a poor Virgin,
(For yet by —— I am so) should chance so far
(Seeing your excellence, and able sweetness)
To forget her self, and slip into your bosome,
Or to your bed, out of a doting on ye,
Take it the best way; have you that cruel heart,
That murd'ring mind too?
Mir. Yes by my troth (sweet) have I,
To lie with her.