Lov. Well, march on; if thou art my genius, thou art bound to be answerable for me; I'll have thee hanged, if I miscarry.
Set. Fear not, my son.
Lov. Fear not, quotha! then, pr'ythee, put on a more familiar shape:—one of us two stinks extremely: Pr'ythee, do not come so near me; I do not love to have my face bleached like a tiffany with thy brimstone.
Set. Fear not, but follow me.
Lov. 'Faith, I have no great mind to't; I am somewhat godly at present; but stay a month longer, and I'll be proud, and fitter for thee. In the mean time, pr'ythee, stay thy stomach with some Dutchman; an Hollander, with butter, will fry rarely in hell.
Set. Mortal, 'tis now too late for a retreat; go on, and live; step back, and thou art mine.
Lorn. So I am, however, first or last; but for once I'll trust thee. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
_The scene opens, and discovers CONSTANCE, and a Parson by her; she habited like Fortune.
Enter again_.