_Mar._ Sir, ye shall pardon me; 'Tis not our English use to be degraded; If you will visit me, and take your venture, You shall have pleasure for your properties; And so sweet heart. _Mir._ Let her go, and the Devil go with her; We have never better luck with these preludiums; Come, be not daunted; think she is but a woman, And let her have the Devils wit, we'll reach her. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II. _Enter_ Rosalure, _and_ Lugier. _Ros._ Ye have now redeem'd my good opinion, Tutor, And ye stand fair again. _Lug._ I can but labour, And sweat in your affairs; I am sure _Belleur_ Will be here instantly, and use his anger, His wonted harshness. _Ros._ I hope he will not beat me. _Lug._ No sure, he has more manners; be you ready. _Ros._ Yes, yes, I am, and am resolv'd to fit him, With patience to outdo all he can offer; But how does _Oriana_? _Lug._ Worse, and worse still; There is a sad house for her: she is now, Poor Lady, utterly distracted. _Ros._ Pity! Infinite pity! 'tis a handsome Lady, That _Mirabel_'s a Beast, worse than a Monster, If this affliction work not. _Enter_ Lilia Biancha. _Lil._ Are ye ready? _Belleur_ is coming on, here, hard behind me, I have no leisure to relate my Fortune. Only I wish you may come off as handsomely, Upon the sign you know what. [_Exit._ _Ros._ Well, well, leave me. _Enter_ Belleur. _Bel._ How now? _Ros._ Ye are welcome, Sir. _Bel._ 'Tis well ye have manners: That Court'sie again, and hold your Countenance stai'dly; That look's too light; take heed: so, sit ye down now, And to confirm me that your Gall is gone, Your bitterness dispers'd, for so I'll have it: Look on me stedfastly, and whatsoe'r I say unto ye, Move not, nor alter in your face, ye are gone then: For if you do express the least distaste, Or shew an angry wrinkle, mark me, woman, We are now alone, I will so conjure thee; The third part of my Execution Cannot be spoke. _Ros._ I am at your dispose, Sir. _Bel._ Now rise, and woo me a little, let me hear that faculty: But touch me not, nor do not lie I charge ye. Begin now. _Ros._ If so mean and poor a Beauty May ever hope the Grace. _Bel._ Ye cog, ye flatter, Like a lewd thing ye lie: may hope that grace? Why, what grace canst thou hope for? Answer not, For if thou dost, and liest again I'll swindge thee: Do not I know thee for a pestilent Woman? A proud at both ends? Be not angry, Nor stir not o' your life. _Ros._ I am counsell'd, Sir.