Isa. Let it suffice you have it, it was never mine, whilest good men wanted it.
Lan. This is a Saint sure.
Isa. And if you be not such a one, restore it.
Fran. To commend my self, were more officious than you think my thanks are, to doubt I may be worth your gift a treason, both to mine own good and understanding, I know my mind clear, and though modesty tells me, he that intreats intrudes; yet I must think something, and of some season, met with your better taste, this had not been else.
Wid. What ward for that, wench?
Isa. Alas, it never touched me.
Fran. Well, gentle Lady, yours is the first money I ever took upon a forced ill manners.
Isa. The last of me, if ever you use other.
Fran. How may I do, and your way to be thought a grateful taker?
Isa. Spend it, and say nothing, your modesty may deserve more.