Isab. She is excellent, well built too.
Luce. And yet she's old.
Isab. She never saw above one voyage Luce, and credit me after another, her Hull will serve again, a right good Merchant: she plaies, and sings too, dances and discourses, comes very near Essays, a pretty Poet, begins to piddle with Philosophic, a subtil Chymick Wench, and can extract the Spirit of mens Estates, she has the light before her, and cannot miss her choice for me, 'tis reason I wait my mean fortune.
Luce. You are so bashfull.
Isab. It is not at first word up and ride, thou art cozen'd, that would shew mad i' faith: besides, we lose the main part of our politick government: if we become provokers, then we are fair, and fit for mens imbraces, when like towns, they lie before us ages, yet not carried, hold out their strongest batteries, then compound too without the loss of honour, and march off with our fair wedding, Colours flying. Who are these?
Enter Franc, and Lance.
Luce. I know not, nor I care not.
Isab. Prethee peace then, a well built Gentleman.
Luce. But poorly thatcht.
Lance. Has he devour'd you too?