_Pi._ To you, Sir. _Mir._ Gentle Lady. _Ros._ She is fair indeed. _Lil._ I have seen a fairer, yet She is well. _Ros._ Her clothes sit handsom too. _Lil._ She dresses prettily. _Ros._ And by my faith she is rich, she looks still sweeter. A well bred woman, I warrant her. _Lil._ Do you hear, Sir; May I crave this Gentlewomans name? _Pi. Mariana_, Lady. _Lil._ I will not say I ow ye a quarel Monsieur For making me your Stale: a noble Gentleman Would have had more courtesie; at least, more faith, Than to turn off his Mistris at first trial: You know not what respect I might have shew'd ye; I find ye have worth. _Pi._ I cannot stay to answer ye; Ye see my charge: I am beholding to ye For all your merry tricks ye put upon me, Your bobs, and base accounts: I came to love ye, To wooe ye, and to serve ye; I am much indebted to ye For dancing me off my legs; and then for walking me; For telling me strange tales I never heard of, More to abuse me; for mistaking me, When ye both knew I was a Gentleman, And one deserv'd as rich a match as you are. _Lil._ Be not so bitter, Sir. _Pi._ You see this Lady: She is young enough, and fair enough to please me, A woman of a loving mind, a quiet, And one that weighs the worth of him that loves her, I am content with this, and bless my fortune, Your curious Wits, and Beauties. _Lil._ Faith see me once more. _Pi._ I dare not trouble ye. _Lil._ May I speak to your Lady? _Pi._ I pray ye content your self: I know ye are bitter, And in your bitterness, ye may abuse her; Which if she comes to know, (for she understands ye not) It may breed such a quarrel to your kindred, And such an indiscretion fling on you too; For she is nobly friended. _Lil._ I could eat her. _Pi._ Rest as ye are, a modest noble Gentlewoman, And afford your honest neighbours some of your prayers. [_Exit._ _Mir._ What think you now? _Lil._ Faith she's a pretty Whiting; She has got a pretty catch too. _Mir._ You are angry; Monstrous angry now; grievously angry; And the pretty heart does swell now. _Lil._ No in troth, Sir. _Mir._ And it will cry anon; a pox upon it: And it will curse it self: and eat no meat, Lady; And it will fight. _Lil._ Indeed you are mistaken; It will be very merry. _Ros._ Why, Sir, do you think There are no more men living, nor no handsomer Than he, or you, By this light there be ten thousand? Ten thousand thousand: comfort your self, dear Monsieur, Faces, and bodies, Wits, and all Abiliments There are so many we regard 'em not. _Enter_ Belleur, _and two Gentlemen_. _Mir._ That such a noble Lady, I could burst now, So far above such trifles? _Bel._ You did laugh at me, And I know why ye laughed.