_Bel._ Art thou not now (confess, for I'll have the truth out) As much unworthy of a man of merit, Or any of ye all? Nay, of meer man? Though he were crooked, cold, all wants upon him: Nay, of any dishonest thing that bears that figure: As Devils are of mercy? _Ros._ We are unworthy. _Bel._ Stick to that truth, and it may chance to save thee. And is it not our bounty that we take ye? That we are troubled, vex'd, or tortur'd with ye? Our meer and special bounty? _Ros._ Yes. _Bel._ Our pity, That for your wickedness we swindge ye soundly; Your stubbornness, and your stout hearts, we be-labour ye, Answer to that. _Ros._ I do confess your pity. _Bel._ And dost not thou deserve in thine own person? (Thou Impudent, thou Pert; do not change countenance.) _Ros._ I dare not, Sir. _Bel._ For if ye do. _Ros._ I am setled. _Bel._ Thou Wag-tail, Peacock, Puppy, look on me: I am a Gentleman. _Ros._ It seems no less, Sir. _Bel._ And darest thou in thy Surquedry? _Ros._ I beseech ye; It was my weakness, Sir, I did not view ye, I took no notice of your noble parts, Nor call'd your person, nor your proper fashion. _Bel._ This is some amends yet. _Ros._ I shall mend, Sir, daily, And study to deserve. _Bel._ Come a little nearer; Canst thou repent thy villainy? _Ros._ Most seriously. _Bel._ And be asham'd? _Ros._ I am asham'd. _Bel._ Cry. _Ros._ It will be hard to do, Sir. _Bel._ Cry instantly; Cry monstrously, that all the Town may hear thee; Cry seriously, as if thou hadst lost thy Monkey; And as I like thy tears. _Enter_ Lilia, _and four Women laughing_. _Ros._ Now. _Bel._ How? how? do ye jear me? Have ye broke your bounds again, Dame? _Ros._ Yes, and laugh at ye, And laugh most heartily. _Bel._ What are these, Whirl-winds? Is Hell broke loose, and all the Furies flutter'd? Am I greas'd once again? _Ros._ Yes indeed are ye; And once again ye shall be, if ye quarrel; Do you come to vent your fury on a Virgin? Is this your Manhood, Sir? _1 Wom._ Let him do his best, Let's see the utmost of his indignation, I long to see him angry; Come, proceed, Sir. Hang him, he dares not stir, a man of Timber. _2 Wom._ Come hither to fright maids with thy Bul-faces? To threaten Gentlewomen? Thou a man? A _May_-pole, A great dry Pudding. [3] _Wom._ Come, come, do your worst, Sir; Be angry if thou darst. _Bel._ The Lord deliver me! _4 Wom._ Do but look scurvily upon this Lady, Or give us one foul word. We are all mistaken, This is some mighty Dairy-maid in Mans Cloaths. _Lil._ I am of that mind too. _Bel._ What will they do to me!