_2 Wom._ What a strange pace she has got! _Olym._ That's but her breeding. _Pet._ And what a manly body! me thinks she looks As though she would pitch the Bar, or go to Buffets. _2 Wom._ Yet her behaviour's utterly against it, For me thinks she is too bashful. _Olym._ Is that hurtful? _2 Wom._ Even equal to too bold: either of 'em, Madam, May do her injury when time shall serve her. _Olym._ You discourse learnedly, call in the wench. [_Ex. Gent._ What envious fools are you? Is the rule general, That Women can speak handsomly of none, But those they are bred withal? _Pet._ Scarce well of those, Madam, If they believe they may out-shine 'em any way: Our natures are like Oyl, compound us with any thing, Yet still we strive to swim o' th' top: Suppose there were here now, Now in this Court of _Mosco_, a stranger Princess, Of bloud and beauty equal to your excellence, As many eyes and services stuck on her; What would you think? _Olym._ I would think she might deserve it. _Pet._ Your Grace shall give me leave not to believe ye; I know you are a Woman, and so humour'd: I'le tell ye Madam, I could then get more Gowns on ye, More Caps and Feathers, more Scarfs, and more Silk-stockings With rocking you asleep with nightly railings Upon that Woman, than if I had nine lives I could wear out: by this hand ye'would scratch her eyes out. _Olym._ Thou art deceiv'd fool; Now let your own eye mock ye. _Enter Gentlewoman and_ Alinda. Come hither Girl: hang me and she be not a handsom one. _Pet._ I fear it will prove indeed so. _Olym._ Did you ever serve yet In any place of worth? _Alin._ No, Royal Lady. _Pet._ Hold up your head; fie. _Olym._ Let her alone, stand from her. _Alin._ It shall be now, Of all the blessings my poor youth has pray'd for, The greatest and the happiest to serve you; And might my promise carry but that credit To be believ'd, because I am yet a stranger, Excellent Lady, when I fall from duty, From all the service that my life can lend me, May everlasting misery then find me. _Olym._ What think ye now? I do believe, and thank ye; And sure I shall not be so far forgetful, To see that honest faith die unrewarded: What must I call your name? _Alin._ _Alinda_, Madam. _Olym._ Can ye sing? _Alin._ A little, when my grief will give me leave, Lady. _Olym._ What grief canst thou have Wench? Thou art not in love? _Alin._ If I be Madam, 'tis only with your goodness; For yet I never saw that man I sighed for. _Olym._ Of what years are you? _Alin._ My Mother oft has told me, That very day and hour this land was blest With your most happy birth, I first saluted This worlds fair light: Nature was then so busie, And all the Graces to adorn your goodness, I stole into the world poor and neglected.