_Duke._ Be you gone then: Come in Ladies, Welcom to th' court sweet beauties; now the court shines, When such true beams of beauty strike amongst us: Welcom, welcom, even as your own joyes welcom. How do you like the Court? how seems it to you? Is't not a place created for all sweetness? Why were you made such strangers to this happiness? Barr'd the delights this holds? the richest jewels Set ne're so well, if then not worn to wonder, By judging eyes not set off, lose their lustre: Your Country shades are faint; blasters of beauty; The manners like the place, obscure and heavie; The Rose buds of the beauties turn to cankers, Eaten with inward thoughts: whilst there ye wander. Here Ladies, here, you were not made for Cloisters, Here is the Sphere you move in: here shine nobly, And by your powerfull influence command all: What a sweet modestie dwells round about 'em, And like a nipping morn pulls in their blossoms? _Hon._ Your grace speaks cunningly, you doe not this, I hope Sir, to betray us; we are poor triumphs; Nor can our loss of honour adde to you Sir: Great men, and great thoughts, seek things great and worthy, Subjects to make 'em live, and not to lose 'em; Conquests so nobly won, can never perish; We are two simple maids, untutor'd here Sir; Two honest maids, is that a sin at Court Sir? Our breeding is obedience, but to good things, To vertuous and to fair: what wou'd you win on us? Why do I ask that question, when I have found ye? Your Preamble has pour'd your heart out to us; You would dishonour us; which in your translation Here at the Court reads thus, your grace would love us, Most dearly love us: stick us up for mistresses: Most certain, there are thousands of our sex Sir That would be glad of this, and handsom women, And crowd into this favour, fair young women, Excellent beauties Sir: when ye have enjoy'd 'em, And suckt those sweets they have, what Saints are these then? What worship have they won? what name you ghess Sir, What storie added to their time, a sweet one? _Duke._ A brave spirited wench. _Hon._ I'le tell your grace, And tell ye true: ye are deceiv'd in us two, Extreamly cozen'd Sir: And yet in my eye You are the handsomst man I ever lookt on, The goodliest Gentleman; take that hope with ye; And were I fit to be your wife (so much I honour ye) Trust me I would scratch for ye but I would have ye. I would wooe you then. _Duke._ She amazes me: But how am I deceiv'd?