Lu. Must every slight companion that can purchase a shew of poverty and beggerly planet fall under your compassion?
Lane. Here's a new matter.
Luce. Nay, you are served but too well, here he staies yet, yet as I live.
Fran. How her face alters on me!
Luce. Out of a confidence I hope.
Isab. I am glad on't.
Fran. How do you gentle Lady?
Isab. Much ashamed Sir, (but first stand further off me, y'are infectious) to find such vanitie, nay almost impudence, where I believ'd a worth: is this your thanks, the gratitude you were so mad to make me, your trim counsel Gentlemen?
Lane. What, Lady?
Isab. Take your device again, it will not serve Sir, the woman will not bite, you are finely cozened, drop it no more for shame.