_Rut_. I'le watch you for that trick, baboon, I'le Smoke you: the rogue sweats, as if he had eaten Grains, he broyles, if I do come to the Basting of you. _Arno_. Your Lordship May happily speak this, to fright a stranger, But 'tis not in your honour, to perform it; The Custom of this place, if such there be, At best most damnable, may urge you to it, But if you be an honest man you hate it, How ever I will presently prepare To make her mine, and most undoubtedly Believe you are abus'd, this custome feign'd too, And what you now pretend, most fair and vertuous. _Clod_. Go and believe, a good belief does well Sir; And you Sir, clear the place, but leave her here. _Arn_. Your Lordships pleasure. _Clod_. That anon _Arnoldo_, This is but talk. _Rut_. Shall we goe off? _Arn_. By any means, I know she has pious thoughts enough to guard her: Besides, here's nothing due to him till the tye be done, Nor dare he offer. _Rut_. Now do I long to worry him: Pray have a care to the main chance. _Zen_. Pray Sir, fear not. [_Exit_ Ar. _and_ Rut. _Clod_. Now, what say you to me? _Zen_. Sir it becomes The modestie, that maids are ever born with, To use few words. _Clod_. Do you see nothing in me? Nothing to catch your eyes, nothing of wonder The common mould of men, come short, and want in? Do you read no future fortune for your self here? And what a happiness it may be to you, To have him honour you, all women aim at? To have him love you Lady, that man love you, The best, and the most beauteous have run mad for? Look and be wise, you have a favour offer'd you I do not every day propound to women; You are a prettie one; and though each hour I am glutted with the sacrifice of beautie, I may be brought, as you may handle it, To cast so good a grace and liking on you. You understand, come kiss me, and be joyfull, I give you leave. _Zen_. Faith Sir, 'twill not shew handsome; Our sex is blushing, full of fear, unskil'd too In these alarms. _Clod_. Learn then and be perfect. _Zen_. I do beseech your honour pardon me, And take some skilfull one can hold you play, I am a fool. _Clod_. I tell thee maid I love thee, Let that word make thee happie, so far love thee, That though I may enjoy thee without ceremony, I will descend so low, to marry thee, Me thinks I see the race that shall spring from us, Some Princes, some great Souldiers. _Zen_. I am afraid Your honour's couzen'd in this calculation; For certain, I shall ne're have a child by you. _Clod_. Why? _Zen_. Because I must not think to marry you, I dare not Sir, the step betwixt your honour, And my poor humble State. _Clod_. I will descend to thee, And buoy thee up.