_Fran._ Let him venture In some decai'd Ware, or Carack of his own: he shall not Rig me out, that's the short on't; out upon't: What young thing of my years would endure To have her Husband in another Country Within a month after she is married Chopping for rotten Raisins, and lye pining At home under the mercy of his fore-man? no, Though they be wealthy, and indifferent wise I do not see that I am bound to love 'em. _Clo._ I see ye are hard to please; yet I will please ye. _Fran._ Faith not so hard neither, if considered What woman may deserve as she is worthy: But why do we bestow our time so idlely? Prethee let us entertain some other talk, This is as sickly to me as faint weather. _Clor._ Now I believe I shall content you _Frank_, What think you of a Courtier? _Fran._ Faith so ill, That if I should be full, and speak but truth, 'Twould shew as if I wanted charity, Prethee good wench let me not rail upon 'em, Yet I have an excellent stomach, and must do it; I have no mercy of these Infidels Since I am put in mind on't, good wench bear with me. _Clo._ Can no man fit you? I will find him out. _Fran._ This Summer fruit, that you call Courtier, While you continue cold and frosty to him Hangs fast, and may be found: but when you fling Too full a heat of your affections Upon his root, and make him ripe too soon, You'll find him rotten i'th' handling; His oaths and affections are all one With his apparel, things to set him off, He has as many Mistrisses as Faiths, And all _Apocrypha_; his true belief Is only in a private Surgion, And for my single self, I'd sooner venture A new conversion of the _Indies_, Than to make Courtiers able men, or honest. _Clo._ I do believe you love no Courtier, And by my troth to ghess you into love With any I can think of, is beyond Either your will, or my imagination. And yet I am sure y'are caught: and I will know him. There's none left now worthy the thinking of, Unless it be a Souldier, and I am sure, I would ever bless my self from such a fellow. _Fran._ Why prethee? _Clo._ Out upon 'em fire-locks, They are nothing i'th' world but Buff and Scarlet, Tough unhewn pieces, to hack swords upon; I had as lieve be courted by a Cannon, As one of those. _Fran._ Thou art too malicious, Upon my faith me thinks they're worthy men. _Clo._ Say ye so? I'le pull ye on a little further. What worth can be in those men, whose profession Is nothing i'th' world but drink and damn me, Out of whose violence they are possest With legions of unwholsome whores and quarrels; I am of that opinion, and will dye in't, There is no understanding, nor can be In a soust Souldier.