+Cle.+ Floriana! Not so kind-natur'd, surely. I have put The sighs of courtiers in a scale, and find Some threescore thousand may weigh down a feather; I have tried their tears which, though of briny taste, Can only season the hearts of fools, not women. Their vows are like their duels, ever grounded Upon the idlest quarrel. +Flo.+ This experience Perhaps instructs you to; but yet your pride, I fear, is over-easy to believe. 'Tis merely to fly idleness that my lord Hath troubled you with courtship: if the queen Would make a statesman, she might cure a lover. Want of employment made him dream on beauty, And yours came first t' his fancy. +Cle.+ I begin To think his making love but vanity, And a mistake in wit. +Flo.+ And you begin Perhaps to fear it? +Cle.+ True, perhaps I do; For though we care not for the lover, yet We love the passion: though we scorn the offering, We grieve to see it thrown away, and envy, If consecrated to another. Woman Hath no revenge 'gainst th' injury of custom, Which gives man superiority, but thus To fool it to subjection. +Flo.+ Yet, Cleantha, I could have wish'd your charity had spar'd This triumph o'er my lord. +Cle.+ You see I take The next way to redeem him. This the hour, And this the place. Here he resolves to raise A trophy in my ruin: and behold-- _Enter +Sanmartino+, winding up his watch._ The just man of his promise! Not a minute He fails when sin's the payment. +Flo.+ I'll endanger His virtue to a blush, and happily Convert an infidel. +Cle.+ This is my province, Nor shall you envy me the honour of A work so meritorious. Let him walk Awhile, and sin with his own fancy; then I'll undertake him, and if there be need, Be you prepared to assist me. +Flo.+ Thou dost build Such forts on the opinion of thy wit! [_Exeunt +Floriana+ and +Cleantha+._ +San.+ 'Tis a full hour, and half a minute over, And yet she not appears! How we severe Strict creditors in love stand on the minute, But yet the payment never comes unwelcome; Until the gold through age grow foul and rusty, We stand not on a grain or two too light. _Enter +Browfildora+._ Now your discovery? +Brow.+ My lord, I have Made search in every alley, every arbour, Not left a bush wherein my littleness Could creep without due scrutiny; and yet No whispering of taffaty: no dazzling Of your bright mistress forc'd me to a wink. I saw no mortal beauty. +San.+ Sure, she'll not Be so unworthy to delude me now! +Brow.+ But I had a more prosperous fate in love. My lord, I met my mistress. +San.+ You a mistress!