BOULT.
I must have your maidenhead taken off, or the common hangman shall execute it. Come your ways. We’ll have no more gentlemen driven away. Come your ways, I say.
Re-enter Bawd.
BAWD.
How now! what’s the matter?
BOULT.
Worse and worse, mistress; she has here spoken holy words to the Lord Lysimachus.
BAWD.
O, abominable!
BOULT.
She makes our profession as it were to stink afore the face of the gods.
BAWD.
Marry, hang her up for ever!
BOULT.
The nobleman would have dealt with her like a nobleman, and she sent him away as cold as a snowball; saying his prayers too.
BAWD.
Boult, take her away; use her at thy pleasure: crack the glass of her virginity, and make the rest malleable.
BOULT.
An if she were a thornier piece of ground than she is, she shall be ploughed.