_The._ I'll honour ye, I warrant; I'll set ye off With such a lustre, Wenches; alas poor _Viola_, Thou art a fool, thou criest for eating white bread: Be a good Huswife of thy tears, and save 'em, Thou wilt have time enough to shed 'em, Sister. Do you weep too? nay, then I'll fool no more. Come worthy Sisters, since it must be so, And since he thinks it fit to try your Vertues, Be you as strong to truth, as I to guard ye, And this old Gentleman shall have joy of ye. [_Exeunt._ SCENE III. _Enter Duke, and_ Burris. _Du._ _Burris_ take you ten thousand of those Crowns, And those two Chains of Pearl they hold the richest, I give 'em ye. _Bur._ I humbly thank your Grace; And may your great example work in me That noble Charity to men more worthy, And of more wants. _Du._ You bear a good mind, _Burris_; Take twenty thousand now: be not so modest, It shall be so, I give 'em: go, there's my ring for't. _Bur._ Heaven bless your Highness ever. [_Exit._ _Du._ You are honest. _Enter_ Alinda, _and_ Putskey _at door_. _Put._ They're coming now to Court, as fair as vertue: Two brighter Stars ne'er rose here. _Alin._ Peace, I have it, And what my Art can do; the Duke-- _Put._ I am gone, Remember. [_Exit._ _Alin._ I am counsell'd to the full, Sir. _Duke._ My pretty Mistris, whither lyes your business? How kindly I should take this, were it to me now? _Alin._ I must confess immediately to your Grace, At this time. _Duke._ You have no address, I do believe ye, I would ye had. _Alin._ 'Twere too much boldness, Sir, Upon so little knowledge, less deserving. _Duke._ You'll make a perfect Courtier. _Alin._ A very poor one. _Duke._ A very fair one, sweet; come hither to me. What killing eyes this Wench has! in his glory Not the bright Sun, when the _Sirian_ Star reigns, Shines half so fiery. _Alin._ Why does your Grace so view me? Nothing but common handsomness dwells here, Sir, Scarce that: your Grace is pleas'd to mock my meanness. _Duke._ Thou shalt not go: I do not lie unto thee, In my eye thou appear'st-- _Alin._ Dim not the sight, Sir, I am too dull an object. _Duke._ Canst thou love me? Canst thou love him will honour thee? _Alin._ I can love, And love as you do too: but 'twill not shew well: Or if it do shew here where all light lustres, Tinsel affections make a glorious glistering, 'Twill halt i'th' handsom way. _Duke._ Are ye so cunning? Dost think I love not truly? _Alin._ No, ye cannot, You never travel'd that way yet: pray pardon me, I prate so boldly to you. _Duke._ There's no harm done: But what's your reason, sweet? _Alin._ I would tell your Grace, But happily-- _Duke._ It shall be pleasing to me.