FUL. Continue that opinion, and be sure To die a virgin chaste, a maiden pure. It was my chance once, in my wanton days, To court a wench; hark, and I'll tell thee how: I came unto my love, and she look'd coy, I spake unto my love, she turn'd aside, I touch'd my love, and 'gan with her to toy, But she sat mute, for anger or for pride; I striv'd and kiss'd my love, she cry'd _Away_! Thou wouldst have left her thus--I made her stay. I catch'd my love, and wrung her by the hand: I took my love, and set her on my knee, And pull'd her to me; O, you spoil my band, You hurt me, sir; pray, let me go, quoth she. I'm glad, quoth I, that you have found your tongue, And still my love I by the finger wrung. I ask'd her if she lov'd me; she said, No. I bad her swear; she straight calls for a book; Nay then, thought I, 'tis time to let her go, I eas'd my knee, and from her cast a look. She leaves me wond'ring at these strange affairs, And like the wind she trips me up the stairs. I left the room below, and up I went, Finding her thrown upon her wanton bed: I ask'd the cause of her sad discontent; Further she lies, and, making room, she said, Now, sweeting, kiss me, having time and place; So clings me to her with a sweet embrace. ANS. Is't possible? I had not thought till now, That women could dissemble. Master Fuller, Here dwells the sacred mistress of my heart; Before her door I'll frame a friv'lous walk, And, spying her, with her devise some talk. _Enter_ YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR, MISTRESS ARTHUR, OLD MASTER ARTHUR, OLD MASTER LUSAM, YOUNG MASTER LUSAM, _and_ PIPKIN. FUL. What stir is this? let's step but out the way, And hear the utmost what these people say. O. ART. Thou art a knave, although thou be my son. Have I with care and trouble brought thee up, To be a staff and comfort to my age, A pillar to support me, and a crutch To lean on in my second infancy, And dost thou use me thus? Thou art a knave. O. LUS. A knave, ay, marry, and an arrant knave; And, sirrah, by old Master Arthur's leave, Though I be weak and old, I'll prove thee one. Y. ART. Sir, though it be my father's pleasure thus To wrong me with the scorned name of knave, I will not have you so familiar, Nor so presume upon my patience. O LUS. Speak, Master Arthur, is he not a knave? O. ART. I say he is a knave. O. LUS. Then so say I. Y. ART. My father may command my patience; But you, sir, that are but my father-in-law, Shall not so mock my reputation. Sir, you shall find I am an honest man. O. LUS. An honest man! Y. ART. Ay, sir, so I say. O. LUS. Nay, if you say so, I'll not be against it: But, sir, you might have us'd my daughter better, Than to have beat her, spurn'd her, rail'd at her Before our faces. O. ART. Ay, therein, son Arthur, Thou show'dst thyself no better than a knave. O. LUS. Ay, marry, did he, I will stand to it: To use my honest daughter in such sort, He show'd himself no better than a knave.