CURTALL. These are very indiscreet counsels, neighbour Poppey, and I will follow your misadvisement.
POPPEY. I tell you, goodman Curtall, the wench hath wrong. O vain world, O foolish men! Could a man in nature cast a wench down, and disdain in nature to lift her up again? Could he take away her dishonesty without bouncing up the banns of matrimony? O learned poet, well didst thou write fustian verse.
These maids are daws That go to the laws, And a babe in the belly.
CURTALL. Tut, man, 'tis the way the world must follow, for
Maids must be kind, Good husbands to find.
POPPEY. But mark the fierse[164],
If they swell before, It will grieve them sore.
But see, yond's Master Sylla: faith, a pretty fellow is a.
SYLLA. What seek my countrymen? what would my friends?
CURTALL. Nay, sir, your kind words shall not serve the turn: why, think you to thrust your soldiers into our kindred with your courtesies, sir?