+La P.+ Very witty! +Sil.+ I am what I am: but I was never beholden to any Living thing for thus much wit: I might Have been an arrant younger brother, but for my mother---- Thereby hangs a tale, madam, and yet I cou'd ha' danc'd My cinque pace in Greek at a dozen. Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, cost me five shillings: Can you believe me, lady? By this light, you shall Wear this diamond! There; sha't, sha't ha't: Sha't, sha't, sha't ha't. +La P.+ There is such sorcery in your words! +Sil.+ No, no, no; troth, love me: come, thou shalt; By this----nay, never sigh, my dear; they are All orient, sweet wench: Thou art worth all Spain For a good disposition---- +La P.+ You will undo me, master steward. +Sil.+ Pish! who? I undo thee? my life! thou dost wrong Me: canst find in thy heart to think so? away, away. +La P.+ But is this profession honourable, sir? +Sil.+ I scorn to deal upon dishonourable terms. Do I Kiss like a man that would propound dishonourable Conditions? +La P.+ Men are so nice and cunning! +Sil.+ Do'st think me a Jew; swear me to anything. +La P.+ Well, you have taken a poor heart at advantage; and make me blush to confess it. +Sil.+ Kiss me; here's my hand, till death us do part: Thine more than mine own, Signior Bouche Ouverte Sillimano: seal'd and deliver'd; but I hope, lady, there is no quit rent to be paid out of this copyhold. +La P.+ Not for your life, sir. +Sil.+ Lawful possession then, and thou'rt mine own. [_Exeunt._ _Enter +De Flame+ and +Cleara+._ +De F.+ So, let 'em drench their souls in laughter: kindle Thy noble heart into a flame, my sister! Fate cannot give nor we ask more unto Our cause: all things conspire and prompt us to't. Just and divine revenge! I'll strew thy midnight haunts with cypress wreaths, And wear thee in rich medals. Propitious goddess! This night thy wan and meagre cheek shall blush, And smile with warm and wanton blood. Night grows heavy-ey'd, And drops her slumbering head in her dark bosom: And now their rage and lust will make them ripe To bleed. Let us embrace, and interchange A sigh or two, Cleara: whate'er become of me, Thou wilt wear chaplets in Elysium. +Cle.+ My hopes and joys are yours, dear sir, and heaven, I hope, will not divide them. [_Unlocks the door, and discovers them._ +De F.+ See, what a modest blush Sleep has cast o'er their guilt! +Cle.+ Here is a look Tyrants would bashfully gaze at, and fear To think it mortal. Glorious hypocrisy! Virtue is at wonder in herself, and looks pale, To own what she has given.