_Whore._ Plain dealing now is impudence. One, if you will Sir, can shew ye as much sport In one half hour, and with as much variety, As a far wiser woman can in half a year: For there my way lies. _Duke._ Is she not drunk too? _Whore._ A little guilded o're Sir, Old sack, old sack boys. _Petr._ This is _saliant_. _John._ A brave bold quean. _Duke._ Is this your certainty? Do ye know the man ye wrong thus, Gentlemen? Is this the woman meant? _Fred._ No. _Duke._ That your Land-lady? _John._ I know not what to say. _Duke._ Am I a person To be your sport, Gentlemen? _John._ I do believe now certain I am a knave; but how, or when-- _Duke._ What are you? _Petr._ Bawd to this piece of pye meat. _Bawd._ A poor Gentlewoman That lyes in Town, about Law business, And't like your worships. _Petr._ You shall have Law, believe it. _Bawd._ I'le shew your Mastership my case. _Petr._ By no means, I had rather see a Custard. _Bawd._ My dead Husband Left it even thus Sir. _John._ Bless mine eyes from blasting, I was never so frighted with a case. _Bawd._ And so Sir-- _Petr._ Enough, put up good velvet head. _Duke._ What are you two now, By your own free confessions? _Fred._ What you shall think us, Though to my self I am certain, and my life Shall make that good and perfect, or fall with it. _John._ We are sure of nothing, _Fred_, that's the truth on't: I do not think my name's _Don John_, nor dare not Believe any thing that concerns me, but my debts, Nor those in way of payment: things are so carried, What to entreat your grace, or how to tell ye We are, or we are not, is past my cunning, But I would fain imagine we are honest, And o' my conscience, I should fight in't-- _Duke._ Thus then, For we may be all abus'd. _Petr._ 'Tis possible, For how should this concern them? _Duke._ Here let's part-- Until to morrow this time: we to our way, To make this doubt out, and you to your way; Pawning our honours then to meet again, When if she be not found. _Fred._ We stand engaged To answer any worthy way we are call'd to. _Duke._ We ask no more. _Whore._ Ye have done with us then? _Petr._ No, Dame. _Duke._ But is her name _Constantia_? _Petr._ Yes a moveable Belonging to a friend of mine: come out Fidler, What say you to this Lady? be not fearfull. _Fra._ Saving the reverence of my Masters pleasure, I say she is a whore, and that she has robb'd him, Hoping his hurts would kill him. _Whore._ Who provok't me? Nay Sirrah squeak, I'le see your treble strings Ty'd up too; if I hang, I'le spoil your piping, Your sweet face shall not save ye. _Petr._ Thou damn'd impudence, And thou dry'd Devil; where's the officer? [_Pet._] He's here Sir.