Fran. Some leaden landed Rogue will have this wench now, when all's done, some such youth will carry her, and wear her, greasie out like stuff, some Dunce that knows no more but Markets, and admires nothing but a long charge at Sizes: O the fortunes!
Enter Isabel and Luce.
Lan. Comfort your self.
Luce. They are here yet, and alone too, boldly upon't; nay, Mistress, I still told you, how 'twould find your trust, this 'tis to venture your charity upon a boy.
Lan. Now, what's the matter? stand fast, and like your self.
Isa. Prethee no more Wench.
Luce. What was his want to you?
Isa. 'Tis true.
Luce. Or misery, or say he had been i'th' Cage, was there no mercy to look abroad but yours?
Isa. I am paid for fooling.