_Surg._ Well, as't please ye, So ye exceed not. _Ant._ Farewell: and if ye find The mad Slave that thus slash'd me, commend me to him, And bid him keep his Skin close. _1 Gent._ Take your rest, Sir. [_Exeunt._ SCENE III. _Enter_ Constantia, _and Land-lady_. _Const._ I have told ye all I can, and more than yet Those Gentlemen know of me; ever trusting Your Counsel and Concealment; for to me You seem a worthy Woman; one of those Are seldome found in our Sex, wise and vertuous, Direct me I beseech ye. _Land._ Ye say well, Lady, And hold ye to that point, for in these businesses A Womans Counsel that conceives the matter, (Do ye mark me? that conceives the matter, Lady) Is worth ten mens engagements: She knows something, And out of that can work like Wax; when men Are giddy-headed, either out of Wine, Or a more Drunkenness, vain Ostentation, Discovering all; there is no more keep in 'em Than hold upon an Eeles tail; Nay, 'tis held fashion To defame now all they can. _Const._ I, but these Gentlemen-- _Land._ Do not you trust to that; these Gentlemen Are as all Gentlemen of the same Barrel; I, and the self same pickle too. Be it granted, They have us'd ye with respect and fair behaviour, Ere since ye came, do you know what must follow? They are Spaniards, Lady, Gennets of high mettle, Things that will thrash the Devil, or his Dam, Let 'em appear but cloven. _Const._ Now Heaven bless me. _Land._ Mad Colts will court the wind; I know 'em, Lady, To the least hair they have; and I tell you, Old as I am, let but the pint pot bless 'em, They'll offer to my years-- _Const._ How? _Land._ Such rude gambols-- _Const._ To you? _Land._ I, and so handle me, that oft I am forc'd To fight of all four for my safety; there's the younger, _Don John_, the arrantest _Jack_ in all this City; The other, Time has blasted, yet he will stoop, If not o'rflown, and freely on the quarry; Has been a Dragon in his days. But _Tarmont_, _Don Jenkin_ is the Devil himself, the dog-days, The most incomprehensible Whore-master, Twenty a night is nothing; Beggars, Broom-women, And those so miserable, they look like famine, Are all sweet Ladies in his drink. _Const._ He's a handsome Gentleman; Pity he should be master of such follies.