Biancha. But as I am a maid Sir, and I'faith
You may believe me, for I am a maid,
So dearly I respected both your fame
And quality, that I would first have perisht
In my sick thoughts than ere have given consent
To have undone your fortunes by inviting
A marriage with so mean an one as I am.
I should have dyed sure, and no creature known
The sickness that had kill'd me.
Ces. Pretty heart, good Soul, alas, alas.
Bian. Now since I know
There is no difference 'twixt your birth and mine,
Not much 'twixt our estates, if any be,
The advantage is on my side, I come willingly
To tender you the first fruits of my heart,
And am content t'accept you for my husband,
Now when you are at lowest.
Ces. For a husband?
Speak sadly, dost thou mean so?
Bian. In good deed Sir,
'Tis pure love makes this proffer.
Ces. I believe thee,
What counsail urg'd thee on, tell me, thy Father
My worshipfull smug Host? wast not he wench?
Or mother Hostess? ha?
Bian. D'ee mock my parentage?
I doe not scorn yours.
Mean folks are as worthy
To be well spoken of if they deserve well,
As some whose onely fame lies in their blood,
O y'are a proud poor man: all your oaths falshood,
Your vows deceit, your letters forg'd, and wicked.
Ces. Thou'dst be my wife, I dare swear.
Bian. Had your heart,
Your hand and tongue been twins, you had reputed
This courtesy a benefit.
Ces. Simplicity,
How prettily thou mov'st me! why Biancha,
Report has coz'ned thee, I am not fallen
From my expected honors, or possessions,
Though from the hope of birthright.