_Rut._ To a wild fellow, that would weary her; A Cannibal, that feeds on the heads of Maids, Then flings their bones and bodies to the Devil, Would any man of discretion venture such a gristle, To the rude clawes of such a _Cat-a-mountain_? You had better tear her between two Oaks, a Town Bull Is a meer _Stoick_ to this fellow, a grave Philosopher, And a _Spanish_ Jennet, a most vertuous Gentleman. _Arn._ Does this seem handsome Sir? _Rut._ Though I confess Any man would desire to have her, and by any means, At any rate too, yet that this common Hangman, That hath whipt off the heads of a thousand maids already, That he should glean the Harvest, sticks in my stomach: This Rogue breaks young wenches to the Saddle, And teaches them to stumble ever after; That he should have her? for my Brother now That is a handsome young fellow; and well thought on, And will deal tenderly in the business; Or for my self that have a reputation, And have studied the conclusions of these causes, And know the perfect manage, I'le tell you old Sir, If I should call you wise Sir, I should bely you, This thing, you study to betray your child to, This Maiden-monger. When you have done your best, And think you have fixt her in the point of honour, Who do you think you have tyed her to? a Surgeon, I must confess an excellent dissector, One that has cut up more young tender Lamb-pies-- _Char_. What I spake Gentlemen, was meer compulsion, No Fathers free-will, nor did I touch your person With any edge of spight; or strain your loves With any base, or hir'd perswasions; Witness these tears, how well I wisht your fortunes. [_Exit._ _Rut_. There's some grace in thee yet, you are determined To marry this Count, Lady. _Zen_. Marry him _Rutilio_? _Rut_. Marry him, and lye with him I mean. _Zen_. You cannot mean that, If you be a true Gentleman, you dare not, The Brother to this man, and one that loves him; I'le marry the Devil first. _Rut_. A better choice And lay his horns by, a handsomer bed-fellow, A cooler o' my conscience. _Arn_. Pray let me ask you; And my dear Mistris, be not angry with me For what I shall propound, I am confident, No promise, nor no power, can force your love, I mean in way of marriage, never stir you, Nor to forget my faith, no state can wound you. But for this Custom, which this wretched country Hath wrought into a law, and must be satisfied; Where all the pleas of honour are but laught at, And modesty regarded as a may-game, What shall be here considered? power we have none, To make resistance, nor policie to cross it: 'Tis held Religion too, to pay this duty. _Zeno_. I'le dye an _Atheist_ then.