Neece. Who would put confidence in wit again,
I'm plagu'd for my ambition, to desire
A wise Man for a husband, and I see
Fate will not have us go beyond our stint,
We are allow'd but one dish, and that's Woodcock,
It keeps up wit to make us friends and servants of,
And thinks any thing's good enough to make us husbands;
Oh that Whores hat o' thine, o' the riding block,
A shade for lecherous kisses.
Cun. Make you doubt on't?
Is not my love of force?
Neece. Yes, me it forces
To tear that sorcerous strumpet from th' imbraces.
Cun. Lady?
Neece. Oh thou hast wrong'd the exquisit'st love—
Cun. What mean you, Lady?
Neece. Mine, you'l answer for't.
Cun. Alas, What seek you?
Neece. Sir, mine own with loss.
Cun. You shall.