_Enter_ De-Gard, Oriana, _and Attendants_. 'Tis she, I am sure; and that the Lord it should seem, He carries a fair Port; is a handsom man too: I do begin to feel, I am a Coxcomb. _Ori._ Good my Lord, chuse a nobler: for I know I am so far below your rank and honour, That what ye can say this way, I must credit But spoken to beget your self sport: Alas, Sir, I am so far off from deserving you, My beauty so unfit for your Affection, That I am grown the scorn of common Railers, Of such injurious things, that when they cannot Reach at my person, lie with my reputation: I am poor besides. _de-Ga._ Ye are all wealth and goodness; And none but such as are the scum of men, The Ulcers of an honest state; Spight-weavers, That live on poyson only, like swoln spiders, Dare once profane such excellence, such sweetness. _Mir._ This man speaks loud indeed. _de-Ga._ Name but the men, Lady; Let me but know these poor, and base depravers; Lay but to my revenge their persons open, And you shall see how suddenly, how fully For your most beauteous sake, how direfully I'le handle their despights. Is this thing one? Be what he will. _Mir._ Sir. _de-Ga._ Dare your malicious tongue, Sir? _Mir._ I know you not; nor what you mean. _Ori._ Good my Lord. _de-Ga._ If he, or any he. _Ori._ I beseech your honour. This Gentleman's a stranger to my knowledge, And no doubt, Sir, a worthy man. _de-Ga._ Your mercy; But had he been a tainter of your honour; A blaster of those beauties raign within ye; But we shall find a fitter time: dear Lady, As soon as I have freed ye from your Guardian, And done some honour'd offices unto ye, I'le take ye with those faults the world flings on ye; And dearer than the whole world I'le esteem ye. [_Exeunt._ _Mir._ This is a thundring Lord; I am glad I scap'd him: How lovingly the wench disclaim'd my villany! I am vext now heartily that he shall have her; Not that I care to marry, or to lose her; But that this Bilbo-Lord shall reap that Maiden-head That was my due; that he shall rig and top her; I'de give a thousand Crowns now, he might miss her. _Enter a Servant._ _Ser._ Nay, if I bear your blows, and keep your counsel, You have good luck, Sir; I'le teach ye to strike lighter. _Mir._ Come hither, honest fellow; canst thou tell me Where this great Lord lies? This _Savoy_ Lord? Thou met'st him; He now went by thee certain. _Ser._ Yes, he did, Sir; I know him; and I know you are fool'd. _Mir._ Come hither, Here's all this, give me truth. _S[e]r._ Not for your mony; (And yet that may do much) but I have been beaten: And by the worshipfull Contrivers beaten, and I'le tell ye; This is no Lord, no _Savoy_ Lord. _Mir._ Go forward.