Cla. Nay, 'tis no matter.
Isab. Is't possible I should forsake a constancy,
So strong, so good, so sweet?
Cla. A subtle woman.
Isab. You shall forgive me, 'twas a trick to try ye,
And were I sure [y]e lov'd me—
Cla. Do you doubt now?
Isab. I do not doubt, but he that would profess this,
And bear that full affection you make shew of,
Should do—
Cla. What should I do?
Isab. I cannot shew ye.
Cla. I'll try thee damnedst Devil: hark ye Lady,
No man shall dare do more, no service top me,
I'll marry ye.
Isab. How Sir?