_Ros._ Is't not a goodly man? _Lil._ A wondrous goodly! H'as weight enough I warrant thee: Mercy upon me; What a Serpent wilt thou seem under such a S. _George_. _Ros._ Thou art a fool; give me a man brings Mettle, Brings substance with him; needs no Broths to Lare him: These little fellows shew like Fleas in boxes, Hop up and down, and keep a stir to vex us; Give me the puissant Pike, take you the small shot. _Lil._ Of a great thing I have not seen a duller, Therefore methinks, sweet Sister-- _Ros._ Peace: he's modest: A bashfulness, which is a point of grace, wench: But when these fellows come to moulding, Sister, To heat, and handling: as I live, I like him; _Enter_ Mirabel. And methinks I could form him. _Lil._ Peace: the Fire-drake. _Mir._ 'Bless ye sweet beauties: sweet incomparable Ladies: Sweet wits: sweet humours: 'Bless you, learned Lady, And you, most holy Nun; 'Bless your Devotions. _Lil._ And 'bless your brains, Sir, your most pregnant brains, Sir, They are in Trav[ail], may they be delivered Of a most hopeful Wild-Goose. _Ros._ 'Bless your manhood: They say ye are a Gentleman of action, A fair accomplish'd man; and a rare Engineer, You have a trick to blow up Maidenheads, A subtle trick, they say abroad. _Mir._ I have Lady. _Ros._ And often glory in their Ruines. _Mir._ Yes forsooth; I have a speedy trick: please you to try it: My Engine will dispatch ye instantly. _Ros._ I would I were a woman, Sir, fit for ye, As there be such, no doubt, may Engine you too; May with a Counter-mine blow up your valour: But in good faith, Sir, we are both too honest: And the plague is, we can not be perswaded: For, look ye: if we thought it were a glory To be the last of all your lovely Ladies. _Mir._ Come, come; leave prating: this has spoil'd your Market; This pride, and pufft-up heart, will make ye fast, Ladies, Fast, when ye are hungry too. _Ros._ The more our pain, Sir. _Lil._ The more our health, I hope too. _Mir._ Your behaviours Have made men stand amaz'd; those men that lov'd ye; Men of fair States and parts; your strange conventions Into I know not what, nor how, nor wherefore; Your scorns of those that came to visit ye; Your studied Whim-whams; and your fine set faces: What have these got ye? proud, and harsh opinions: A Travel'd-_Monsieur_, was the strangest Creature, The wildest Monster to be wondred at: His Person made a publique Scoff, his knowledge, (As if he had been bred 'mongst Bears or Bandoggs) Shunn'd and avoided: his conversation snuft at. What Harvest brings all this? _Ros._ I pray ye proceed, Sir.