_Alin._ Married? to whom, wench? Thou thinkst if there be a young handsome fellow, As those are plentiful, our cares are quenched then. _Jul._ Madam, I think a lusty handsome fellow If he be kind, and loving, and a right one, Is even as good a Pill, to purge this melancholy, As ever _Galen_ gave, I am sure more natural: And merrier for the heart, than Wine and Saffron: Madam, wanton youth is such a Cataplasme. _Alin._ Who has been thy Tutor, Wench? _Jul._ Even my own thoughts, Lady: For though I be bar'd the liberty of talking, Yet I can think unhappily, and as near the mark, Madam, 'Faith, marry, and be merry. _Alin._ Who will have me? Who will be troubled with a pettish Girl? It may be proud, and to that vice expenceful? Who can assure himself, I shall live honest? _Jul._ Let every man take his fortune. _Alin._ And o' my Conscience If once I grow to breeding, a whole Kingdom Will not contain my stock. _Jul._ The more the merrier: 'Tis brave to be a mother of new Nations. _Alin._ Why, I should bury a hundred Husbands. _Jul._ 'Tis no matter! As long as ye leave sufficient men to stock ye. _Alin._ Is this thy mirth? are these the joyes of marriage? Away light-headed fool; are these contentments? If I could find a man-- _Jul._ You may a thousand. _Alin._ Meer men I know I may: and there a Woman Has liberty, (at least she'l venture for it) To be a monster and become the time too; But to enjoy a man, from whose example (As from a compass) we may steer our fortunes, Our actions, and our age; and safe arrive at A memory that shall become our ashes, Such things are few, and far to seek; to find one That can but rightly mannage the wild beast, Woman, And sweetly govern with her. But no more of this, Wench, 'Tis not for thy discourse: Let's in, and see What poor afflicted wait our charity. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II. _Enter a Porter, 4 Beggers_, Pedro, _and a Pilgrim_. _Por._ Stand off, and keep your ranks: twenty foot further: There louse your selves with reason and discretion. The Sun shines warm: the farther still the better, Your beasts will bolt anon, and then 'tis dangerous. _1 Beg._ Heaven bless our Mistris. _Por._ Does the crack go that way? 'Twill be o'th' other side anon. _2 Beg._ Pray ye friend. _Por._ Your friend? and why your friend? why goodman turncoat What dost thou see within me, or without me, Or what itch dost thou know upon me, tell me, That I should be thy friend? what do I look like Any of thy acquaintance hung in Gibbets? Hast thou any Friends, Kindred, or Alliance, Or any higher ambition, than an Alms-basket? _2 Beg._ I would be your worships friend. _Por._ So ye shall, Sirrah, When I quarter the same louse with ye. _3 Beg._ 'Tis twelve o'clock.