Mel. No, no, you are the only post; you must support, prove a wench, and bear; or else all the building of your delight will fall—— 50
Cel. Down.
Lyz. What, must I stand out?
Mel. Ay, by my faith, till you be married.
Lyz. Why do you toss then?
Mel. Why, I am wed, wench.
Cel. Prithee to whom?
Mel. To the true husband, right head of a woman—my will, which vows never to marry till I mean to be a fool, a slave, starch cambric ruffs, and make candles; (pur!)—’tis down, serve again, good wench. 60
Luc. By your pleasing cheek, you play well.
Mel. Nay, good creature, prithee do not flatter me. I thought ’twas for something you go cased in your velvet scabbard; I warrant these laces were ne’er stitch’d on with true stitch. I have a plain waiting-wench; she speaks plain, and, faith, she goes plain; she is virtuous, and because she should go like virtue, by the consent of my bounty, she shall never have above two smocks to her back, for that’s the fortune of desert, and the main in