_Alin._ Out upon't, that's scurvy. Nay, if we do, sure we'll do for good fellowship, For pure love, or nothing: thus you shall be sure, Sir, You shall not pay too dear for't. _Du._ Sure I cannot. _Alin._ By'r Lady but ye may: when ye have found me able To do your work well, ye may pay my wages. _Pet._ Why does your Grace start back? _Olym._ I ha' seen that shakes me: Chills all my bloud: O where is faith or goodness? _Alinda_ thou art false, false, false thou fair one, Wickedness false; and (wo is me) I see it. For ever false. _Pet._ I am glad 't has taken thus right. [_Exeunt._ _Alin._ I'le go ask my Lady, Sir. _Du._ What? _Alin._ Whether I shall lye with ye, or no: If I find her willing-- For look ye Sir, I have sworn, while I am in her service-- ('Twas a rash Oath I must confess.) _Du._ Thou mockst me. _Alin._ Why, would ye lye with me, if I were willing? Would you abuse my weakness? _Du._ I would piece it, And make it stronger. _Alin._ I humbly thank your highness, When you piece me, you must piece me to my Coffin: When you have got my Maiden-head, I take it, 'Tis not an inch of an Apes tail will restore it, I love ye, and I honour ye, but this way I'le neither love nor serve ye. Heaven change your mind, Sir. [_Exit._ _Duke._ And thine too: For it must be chang'd, it shall be. [_Exit._ SCENE IV. _Enter_ Boroskie, Burris, Theodore, Viola _and_ Honora. _Bor._ They are goodly Gentlewomen. _Bur._ They are, Wondrous sweet Women both. _Theo._ Does your Lordship like 'em? They are my Sisters, Sir; good lusty Lasses, They'll do their labour well, I warrant ye, You'll find no Bed-straw here, Sir. _Hon._ Thank ye Brother. _The._ This is not so strongly built: but she is good mettle, Of a good stirring strain too: she goes tith, Sir. _Enter two Gentlemen._ Here they be, Gentlemen, must make ye merry, The toyes you wot of: do you like their complexions? They be no Moors: what think ye of this hand, Gentlemen? Here's a white Altar for your sacrifice: A thousand kisses here. Nay, keep off yet Gentlemen, Let's start first, and have fair play: what would ye give now To turn the Globe up, and find the rich _Moluccas_? To pass the straights? here (do ye itch) by St _Nicholas_, Here's that will make ye scratch and claw, Claw my fine Gentlemen, move ye in divers sorts: Pray ye let me request ye, to forget To say your prayers, whilest these are Courtiers; Or if ye needs will think of Heaven, let it be no higher Than their eyes. _Bor._ How will ye have 'em bestow'd, Sir? _Theo._ Even how your Lordship please, So you do not bake 'em. _Bor._ Bake 'em? _Theo._ They are too high a meat that way, they run to gelly. But if you'll have 'em for your own diet, take my counsel, Stew 'em between two Feather-beds.