Pen. Yes, yes: out of all question, the whore does love you abominable.
Abra. No more of these foul terms: if she do love me,
That goes by fate, I know it by myself.
I'll not deny but I have dallied with her.
Pen. Ay, but hang her, whore; dallying will get no children.
Abra. Another whore, and draw! Where is the girl?
Pen. Condoling her misfortune in the gallery;
Upon the rushes sitting all alone,
And for Sir Abraham's love venting her moan.
Abra. I know not what to say: fate's above all.
Come, let's go overbear her. Be this true,
Welcome, my Wagtail: scornful Luce, adieu.
[Exit.
Pen. One way it takes yet. 'Tis a fool's condition,
Whom none can love, out of his penury
To catch most greedily at any wench
That gives way to his love, or feigns her own
First unto him: and so Sir Abraham now,
I hope, will buy the pool where I will fish.
Thus a quick knave makes a fat fool his dish.
[Exit.
Enter Captain Pouts.
Capt. Pouts. I have played the melancholy ass, and partly the knave, in this last business, but as the parson said that got the wench with child, "'Tis done now, sir; it cannot be undone, and my purse or I must smart for it."
Enter Servant.