Zab. It shall be Madam.
Arn. I am afraid she will injoy me indeed.
Hip. What Musick do ye love?
Arn. A modest tongue.
Hip. We'l have enough of that: fye, fye, how lumpish! In a young Ladyes arms thus dull?
Arn. For Heaven sake Profess a little goodness.
Hip. Of what Country?
Arn. I am of Rome.
Hip. Nay then I know you mock me, The Italians are not frighted with such bug-bears, Prethee go in.
Arn. I am not well.