TAF. [_Above._] He will be gone if we neglect to stay him. ADRI. Shall I cough or sneeze? TAF. No, I ha't; stand aside. Ah me, my handkerchief! Adrian, Fabian! ADRI. Mistress! TAF. Run, run, I have let my handkerchief fall. Gentleman, shall I entreat a courtesy? BOUT. Within my power your beauty shall command. What courtesy is't? TAF. To stoop, and take up My handkerchief. BOUT. Your desire is performed. TAF. Sir, most hearty thanks: please you come in, Your welcome shall transcend your expectation. BOUT. I accept your courtesy: ha! what's this? Assailed by fear and hope in a moment: Boutcher, this womanish passion fits not men, Who know the worth of freedom: shall smiles and eyes With their lascivious glances conquer him, Hath still been lord of his affections? Shall simp'ring niceness, loadstones but to fools, Attract a knowing spirit! it shall, it does. Not Phoebus, rising from Aurora's lap, Spreads his bright rays with more majestic grace Than came the glances from her quick'ning eye. And what of this? CON. By my troth, I know not. BOUT. I will not enter: continued flames burn strong. I yet am free, and reason keeps her seat Above all fond affections--yet is she fair. _Enter_ ADRIANA [_from above_]. ADRI. Sir, I bring you thanks for this great courtesy: And if you please to enter, I dare presume My mistress will afford you gracious welcome. BOUT. How do men call your mistress? CON. The man's in love. [_Aside._ ADRI. Her name, sir, is Mistress Changeable, late wife To Master Taffata, mercer, deceas'd. BOUT. I have heard she is both rich and beautiful. ADRI. In th' eyes of such as love her; judge yourself; Please you but prick forward, and enter. [_Exit_ BOUTCHER. CON. Now will I fall aboard the waiting-maid. ADRI. Fall aboard of me! dost take me for a ship? CON. Ay, and will shoot you betwixt wind and water. ADRI. Blurt! master gunner, your linstock's[338] too short. CON. Foot! how did she know that I dost hear, sweetheart, Should not the page be doing with the maid, Whilst the master is busy with the mistress? Please you, prick forwards; thou art a wench Likely to go the way of all flesh shortly. ADRI. Whose witty knave art thou? CON. At your service. ADRI. At mine, faith! I should breech thee. CON. How, breech me? ADRI. Ay, breech thee;[339] I have breech'd a taller man Than you in my time: come in, and welcome. [_Exit._