PHIL. How, man? how to woo her! why, no matter how; I am sure thou wilt not he ashamed to woo. Thy cheeks not subject to a childish blush, Thou hast a better warrant by thy wit; I know thy oratory can unfold [A] quick invention, plausible discourse, And set such painted beauty on thy tongue, As it shall ravish every maiden sense; For, Frank, thou art not like the russet youth I told thee of, that went to woo a wench, And being full stuff'd up with fallow wit And meadow-matter, ask'd the pretty maid How they sold corn last market-day with them, Saying, "Indeed, 'twas very dear with [us]." And, do ye hear, ye[313] had not need be so, For she[314] will, Francis, throughly[315] try your wit; Sirrah, she'll bow the metal of your wits, And, if they crack, she will not hold ye current; Nay, she will weigh your wit, as men weigh angels,[316] And, if it lack a grain, she will not change with ye. I cannot speak it but in passion, She is a wicked wench to make a jest; Ah me, how full of flouts and mocks she is! FRAN. Some aqua-vitae reason to recover This sick discourser! Sound[317] not, prythee, Philip. Tush, tush, I do not think her as thou sayest: Perhaps she's[318] opinion's darling, Philip, Wise in repute, the crow's bird. O my friend, Some judgments slave themselves to small desert, And wondernise the birth of common wit, When their own[319] strangeness do but make that strange, And their ill errors do but make that good: And why should men debase to make that good? Perhaps such admiration wins her wit. PHIL. Well, I am glad to hear this bold prepare For this encounter. Forward, hardy Frank! Yonder's the window with the candle in't; Belike she's putting on her night attire: I told ye, Frank, 'twas late. Well, I will call her, Marry, softly, that my mother may not hear. Mall, sister Mall! _Enter_ MALL _in the window_. MAL. How now, who's there? PHIL. 'Tis I. MAL. 'Tis I! Who I? I, quoth the dog, or what? A Christcross row I?[320] PHIL. No, sweet pinkany.[321] MAL. O, is't you, wild-oats? PHIL. Ay, forsooth, wanton. MAL. Well said, scapethrift. FRAN. Philip, be these your usual best salutes? [_Aside_.] PHIL. Is this the harmless chiding of that dove? [_Aside_.] FRAN. Dove! One of those that draw the queen of love? [_Aside_.] MAL. How now? who's that, brother? who's that with ye? PHIL. A gentleman, my friend. MAL. By'r lady, he hath a pure wit. FRAN. How meane your holy judgment? MAL. O, well put-in, sir! FRAN. Up, you would say. MAL. Well climb'd, gentleman! I pray, sir, tell me, do you cart the queen of love? FRAN. Not cart her, but couch her in your eye, And a fit place for gentle love to lie. MAL. Ay, but methinks you speak without the book, To place a four[322]-wheel waggon in my look: Where will you have room to have the coachman sit? FRAN. Nay, that were but small manners, and not fit: His duty is before you bare to stand, Having a lusty whipstock[323] in his hand.