Ami. That's plain dealing.
Mont. You are a rascal Captain.
La-p. A fine Calling.
Mont. A Water-coward.
Ami. He would make a pretty stuff.
Mont. May I speak freely, Madam?
Lami. Here's none ties you.
Mont. Why shouldst thou dare come hither with a thought
To find a wife here fit for thee? are all
Thy single money whores that fed on Carrots,
And fill'd the high Grass with familiars
Fall'n off to Footmen; prethee tell me truly,
For now I know thou dar'st not lie, couldst thou not
Wish thy self beaten well with all thy heart now,
And out of pain? say that I broke a rib,
Or cut thy nose off, wer't not merciful for this ambition?
La-p. Do your pleasure, Sir, beggars must not be choosers.
Orl. He longs for beating.