_Sir Geff_. But I beseech you, Madam; what greater accession[93] can you wish then me for husband? I have it here thats sattisfaction for the lustiest widdow twixt this and London. Say, will you love me? Ime in hast and hate demurrs; if you refuse I must seeke out: I have a little moysture and would be loth to hav't dride for want of exercise.--What say you, lady? _Lady_. Sir, for your love I thanke you; for your wealth I want it not; but yet I doe not find A disposicon in my selfe to marriage. _Sir Geff_. That will not serve my turne; I am no knight Who weares the spurr of honour without Rowells To prick a woman forwards: I ride post To Marriage and resolve at the next stage To take my Inn up. You have here Two beautifull young gallants to your daughters: Since youle not be my wife yet be my mother; Ile marry any of them, which you please, And hood her with the bagg [badge?] of honor. Lady, What say you to this motion. _Lady_. My daughters wills are not in my command: If you can purchase either of their hearts, My free consent shall follow. _Sir Geff_. Nay, then, they will fall out for me, Madam, I am most fortunate in atcheiving virgins. _Enter Bonville_. Save you, sweet youth, the bewties of your Mrs. Crowne your desires. Are you a suiter? _Bon_. Madam, I have occasions of importance Wishes a little privacy with you. _Lady_. With me, sweet Mr. _Bonvill? Sir Geffrey_, Pray you vouchsafe your absence; at more leasure We shall discourse. _Sir Geff_. With all my heart: Ile to the wenches. [_Exit_. _Bon_. Madam we are alone? _Lady_. You did desire we should. _Bon_. But are you sure none can oreheare us. _Lady_. Unles we be to loud: What mooves you to require this secresie? _Bon_. I come to aske a question, which the winds; If I could deafe them, should not heare for feare Their repercussive Eccho should declare it To all our infamies. _Lady_. What ist, I pray you? _Bon_. Your daughter whom I was a servant to, --I must deliver it in the homeliest phrase-- Is she dishonest? _Lady_. You urge a repetition, gentle sir, Of a sad truth: she is. _Bon_. It cannot be In reason comprehensible a mother Should for a stranger blurr her daughters fame, Were it untruth. I am confirmd; this favor Transcends requitall: if a man misled By error gainst the diety, gross enough For his damnation, owe a gratitude To his converter, I am engag'd to you For my delivery from her. _Lady_. 'Twas no more Then what my honor obligd me And my respect to vertue, which in you I should have murdred by my silence; but I have not greife enough left to lament The memory of her folly: I am growne Barren of teares by weeping; but the spring Is not yet quite exhausted. [_Weeps_.