Cou. That is a happie beast
Sis. Why happie, sir?
Cou. He writes no verses to his Mistresse, is
Not cosend nor forsworne to gett her favour,
Bestowes no rings nor empties his Exchequer
To appear still in new rich suites, but lives
Free o' the stock of Nature, yet loves none.
Like the great Turke he walkes in his Seraglio,
And doth command which concubine best pleases;
When he has done he falls to graze or sleepe,
And makes as he had never knowne the Dun,
White, Red or Brindled Cowe.
Sis. You are unmanly.
Cou. Nay, I know you will raile now; I shall like it.
Call me a scurvy fellow, proud and saucie,
An ill bred, crooked Clowne; ile here this rather
Then live upon your pitty. And yet doe not;
For, if you raile, too, men that know you can
Dissemble, may beleeve you love me, and
Tis not my ayme.
Sis. You are a fine man!
Cou. I am in my best clothes?
Sis. I perceave That tis truth now what the world saies of you, And yet tis strange.
Cou. 'Twere strange it should be otherwise.
Sis. You give your tongue a licence, nor will I hope
Your malice should spare me abroad that have
So prodigally abus'd a Ladies fame
That deserv'd nobly from you; but you men
Care not whose name you blast with a loose character,
So you maintaine your pride of talke.