Enter Widow, and Luce.
Wid. My sister, and a woman of so base a pity! what was the fellow?
Luce, Why, an ordinary man, Madam.
Wid. Poor?
Luce. Poor enough, and no man knows from whence neither.
Wid. What could she see?
Luce. Only his misery, for else she might behold a hundred handsomer.
Wid. Did she change much?
Luce. Extreamly, when he spoke, and then her pity, like an Orator, I fear her love framed such a commendation, and followed it so far, as made me wonder.
Wid. Is she so hot, or such a want of lovers, that she must doat upon afflictions? why does she not go romage all the prisons, and there bestow her youth, bewray her wantonness, and flie her honour, common both to beggery: did she speak to him?