ABRA. Have you done your prayers? PEN. Pray give me leave, sir: put up, an't please you. Are you sure my cousin Wagtail is a whore? ABRA. With sword in hand I do it not recant. PEN. Well, it shall never be said Jack Pendant would venture his blood in a whore's quarrel. But, whore or no whore, she is most desperately in love with you: praises your head, your face, your nose, your eyes, your mouth: the fire of her commendations makes the pot of your good parts run over; and to conclude, if the whore have you not, I think the pond at Islington will be her bathing-tub, and give an end to mortal misery. But if she belie you----pray, put up, sir; she is an errant whore, and so let her go. ABRA. Does she so love me, say you? PEN. Yes, yes: out of all question, the whore does love you abominable. ABRA. No more of these foul terms: if she do love me, That goes by fate, I know it by myself. I'll not deny but I have dallied with her. PEN. Ay, but hang her, whore; dallying will get no children. ABRA. Another _whore_, and draw! Where is the girl? PEN. Condoling her misfortune in the gallery; Upon the rushes sitting all alone, And for Sir Abraham's love venting her moan. ABRA. I know not what to say: fate's above all. Come, let's go overbear her. Be this true, Welcome, my Wagtail: scornful Luce, adieu. [_Exit._ PEN. One way it takes yet. 'Tis a fool's condition, Whom none can love, out of his penury To catch most greedily at any wench That gives way to his love, or feigns her own First unto him: and so Sir Abraham now, I hope, will buy the pool where I will fish. Thus a quick knave makes a fat fool his dish. [_Exit._ _Enter_ CAPTAIN POUTS. CAPT. POUTS. I have played the melancholy ass, and partly the knave, in this last business, but as the parson said that got the wench with child, "'Tis done now, sir; it cannot be undone, and my purse or I must smart for it." _Enter_ SERVANT. SER. Your trunks are shipped, and the tide falls out about twelve to-night. CAPT. POUTS. I'll away. This law is like the basilisk, to see it first is the death on't.[41] This night and, noble London, farewell; I will never see thee more, till I be knighted for my virtues. Let me see, when shall I return? and yet I do not think, but there are a great many dubbed for their virtues; otherwise, how could there be so many poor knights?[42] _Enter_ STRANGE, _like a soldier, amazedly_. What art thou? what's thy news? STRANGE. 'Zoons; a man is fain to break open doors, ere he can get in to you. I would speak with a general sooner. CAPT. POUTS. Sir, you may: he owes less, peradventure; or if more, he is more able to pay't. What art? STRANGE. A soldier; one that lives upon this buff jerkin: 'twas made of Fortunatus's pouch; and these are the points I stand upon. I am a soldier. CAPT. POUTS. A counterfeit rogue you are.