Rom. I stand so engag’d
To your so many fauours, that I hold it
A breach in thankfulnesse, should I not discouer,
Though with some imputation to my selfe, [245]
All doubts that may concerne you.
Roch. The performance
Will make this protestation worth my thanks.
Rom. Then with your patience lend me your attention
For what I must deliuer, whispered onely
You will with too much griefe receiue.
Enter Beaumelle, Bellapert.
Beau. See wench! [250]
Vpon my life as I forespake, hee’s now
Preferring his complaint: but be thou perfect,
And we will fit him.
Bell. Feare not mee, pox on him:
A Captaine turne Informer against kissing?
Would he were hang’d vp in his rusty Armour: [255]
But if our fresh wits cannot turne the plots
Of such a mouldy murrion on it selfe;
Rich cloathes, choyse faire, and a true friend at a call,
With all the pleasures the night yeelds, forsake vs.
Roch. This in my daughter? doe not wrong her.
Bell. Now. [260]
Begin. The games afoot, and wee in distance.
Beau. Tis thy fault, foolish girle, pinne on my vaile,
I will not weare those iewels. Am I not
Already matcht beyond my hopes? yet still
You prune and set me forth, as if I were [265]
Againe to please a suyter.
Bell. Tis the course
That our great Ladies take.