Zen. Faith Sir, 'twill not shew handsome; Our sex is blushing, full of fear, unskil'd too In these alarms.
Clod. Learn then and be perfect.
Zen. I do beseech your honour pardon me, And take some skilfull one can hold you play, I am a fool.
Clod. I tell thee maid I love thee,
Let that word make thee happie, so far love thee,
That though I may enjoy thee without ceremony,
I will descend so low, to marry thee,
Me thinks I see the race that shall spring from us,
Some Princes, some great Souldiers.
Zen. I am afraid Your honour's couzen'd in this calculation; For certain, I shall ne're have a child by you.
Clod. Why?
Zen. Because I must not think to marry you, I dare not Sir, the step betwixt your honour, And my poor humble State.
Clod. I will descend to thee, And buoy thee up.
Zen. I'le sink to th' Center first.
Why would your Lordship marry, and confine that pleasure
You ever have had freely cast upon you?
Take heed my Lord, this marrying is a mad matter,
Lighter a pair of shackles will hang on you,
And quieter a quartane feaver find you.
If you wed me I must enjoy you only,
Your eyes must be called home, your thoughts in cages,
To sing to no ears then but mine; your heart bound,
The custom, that your youth was ever nurst in,
Must be forgot, I shall forget my duty else,
And how that will appear—
Clod. Wee'l talk of that more.