_Fab._ What wouldst thou ask more? _Jac._ Pray thou scurvy fellow Thou hast not long to live; adieu dear Damsels, You filthy women farewel, and be sober, And keep your chambers. _Clor._ Farewel old _Don Diego_. _Fra._ Away, away, you must not [be so] angry, To part thus roughly from us; yet to me This do's not shew, as if it were yours, the wars May breed men something plain I know, But not thus rude; give me your hand good Sir I know 'tis white, and-- _Jac._ If I were not patient, What would become of you two prating houswives? _Clo._ For any thing I know, we would in to supper, And there begin a health of lusty Claret To keep care from our hearts, and it should be-- _Fab._ Faith to whom? Mark but this _Jacomo_. _Clo._ Even to the handsomest fellow now alive. _Fab._ Do you know such a one? _Fra._ He may be ghest at, Without much travel. _Fab._ There's another item. _Clor._ And he should be a Souldier. _Fra._ 'Twould be better. _Clor._ And yet not you sweet Captain. _Fra._ Why not he? _Jac._ Well; I shall live to see your husbands beat you, And hiss 'em on like ban-dogs. _Clora._ Ha, ha, ha. _Jac._ Green sicknesses and serving-men light on ye With greasy Codpieces, and woollen stockings, The Devil (if he dare deal with two women) Be of your counsels: farewel Plaisterers-- [_Exit_ Jac. _Clora._ This fellow will be mad at Mid-summer Without all doubt. _Fab._ I think so too. _Fra._ I am sorry, He's gone in such a rage; but sure this holds him Not every day. _Fab._ 'Faith every other day If he come near a woman. _Clor._ I wonder how his mother could endure To have him in her Belly, he's so boysterous. _Fra._ He's to be made more tractable I doubt not. _Clo._ Yes, if they taw him as they do whit-leather Upon an iron, or beat him soft like Stock-fish. SCENE IV. _Enter_ Lelia _and her waiting-woman with a Vail_. _Lel._ Art t' sure 'tis he? _Wom._ Yes, and another with him. _Lel._ The more the merrier; did you give that money And charg'd it to be delivered where I shew'd you? _Wom._ Yes, and what else you bad me. _Lel._ That brave fellow, Though he be old, whate'r he be, shews toughness, And such a one I long for, and must have At any price; these young soft melting gristles Are only for my safer ends. _Wom._ They are here. _Lel._ Give me my Vail, and bid the Boy go sing That song above, I gave him; the sad song; Now if I miss him, I am curst, go, wench, And tell 'em I have utterly forsworn All company of men, yet make a venture At last to let 'em in; thou knowst these things, Do 'em to th' life. _Wom._ I warrant you I am perfect. _Lel._ Some ill woman for her use would give A million for this Wench, she is so subtle.