1 Gent. Troth you wrong your anger.
Sold. I will be arm'd, my honourable Letcher.
1 Gent. Oh fie sweet Sir.
Sold. That devours womens honesties by lumps,
And never chaw'st thy pleasure:
2 Gent. What do you mean, Sir?
Sold. What does he mean t'ingross all to himself?
There's others love a whore as well as he Sir.
1 Gent. Oh, if that be part o' th' fury, we have a City
Is very well provided for that case;
Let him alone with her, Sir, we have Women
Are very charitable to proper men,
And to a Soldier that has all his limbs;
Marry the sick and lame gets not a penny:
Right womens charity, and the Husbands follow't too:
Here comes his Highness Sir.
Enter Duke and Lords.
Sold. I'll walk to cool my self. [Exit.
Duke. Who's that?