SLICER. Ne'er fear that, my wench: Dost think the king would send me to the wars Without I had my weapons? Eunuchs are not Men of employment in these days. His majesty Hath newly put me on a piece of service; And if I e'er come off (which I do fear I sha'n't, the danger is so great) brave widow, We'll to't, and get commanders. POT. If you can Leave me, I can leave you. There are other men That won't refuse a fortune when 'tis proffer'd. SLICER. Well, I must to his majesty: think on't: So fare thee well. Thine, to his very death, That is, a month or two, perhaps, D. Slicer. [_Exit._ _Enter_ SHAPE. POT. Kind Master Shape, you are exceeding welcome. Here hath been Master Hearsay and Lieutenant Slicer: you may guess at their business, but I hope you think me faithful. SHAPE. I believe The memory of your husband's ashes, which Scarce yet are cold, extinguisheth all flames That tend to kindling any love fire. 'Tis A virtue in you which I must admire, That only you, amongst so many, should Be the sole turtle of the age. POT. I do Bear him in memory, I confess; but when I do remember what your promise was When he lay sick, it doth take something from The bitterness of sorrow. Woman was Not made to be alone still. SHAPE. Tender things At seventeen may use that plea; but you Are now arriv'd at matron. These young sparks Are rak'd up, I presume, in sager embers. POT. Nay, don't abuse her that must be your wife. You might have pity, and not come with your nicknames, And call me turtle. Have I deserved this? SHAPE. If that you once hold merits, I have done. I'm glad I know what's your religion. POT. What's my religion? 'Tis well known there hath Been no religion in my house, e'er since My husband died. _Enter_ SLICER, HEARSAY. HEAR. How now, sweet Shape'! So close alone Wi' your widow! SHAPE. Sirs, dare you believe it? This thing, whose prayer it hath been these ten Years that she may obtain the second tooth And the third hair, now doats on me; on me, That do refuse all that are past sixteen. SLICER. Why, faith, this was her suit to me just now. HEAR. I had the first on't, then. A coachman or A groom, were fitter far for her. SLICER. You do Honour her too much to think she deserves A thing that can lust moderately: give her The sorrel stallion in my lord's long stable. SHAPE. Or the same-colour'd brother, which is worse. POT. Why, gentlemen---- HEAR. Foh, foh! She hath let fly. POT. D'you think I have no more manners than so? SHAPE. Nay, faith, I can excuse her for that; but I must confess she spoke, which is all one. SLICER. Her breath would rout an army sooner than That of a cannon.