Eug. Nay good my Lord, hold your hand, for ile be sworne, ile not set my hand too't.
Mom. Well hold off your hand, good Madam, till it shood come on, Ile be ready for it anon, I warrent ye. Now forth,—my love is without passion, and therefore free from alteration: what answere you to that Madam?
Eug. Even this, my Lord: your love, being mentall, needs no bodily Requitall.
Mom. I am content with that, and here it is;—but in hart.
Eug. What but in hart?
Mom. Hold off your hand yet I say;—I doe embrace, and repay it.
Eug. You may write, uncle, but if you get my hand to it—
Mom. Alas Neece, this is nothing, ist anything to a bodily marriage, to say you love a man in soule, if your harts agree, and your bodies meet not? simple marriage rites, now let us foorth: he is in the way to felicity, and desires your hand.
Eug. My hand shall alwaies signe the way to felicity.
Mom. Very good; may not any woman say this now. Conclude now, sweet Neece.