_Sor._ You have a good sweet Lady, A Woman of so even and still a temper, She knows not anger; say she were a fury, I had thought you had been absolute, the great King, The fountain of all honours, plays and pleasures, Your will and your commands unbounded also; Go get a pair of Beads and learn to pray, Sir. _Enter Servant._ _Ser._ My Lord, your servant stayes. _Sor._ Bid him come hither, and bring the Lady with him. _Fred._ I will woo her, And either lose my self, or win her favour. _Sor._ She is coming in. _Fred._ Thy eyes shoot through the door, They are so piercing, that the beams they dart Give new light to the room. _Enter_ Podramo _and_ Evanthe. _Evan._ Whither dost thou go? This is the Kings side, and his private lodgings, What business have I here? _Pod._ My Lord sent for ye. _Evan._ His lodgings are below, you are mistaken, We left them at the stair-foot. _Pod._ Good sweet Madam. _Evan._ I am no Counsellor, nor important Sutor, Nor have no private business through these Chambers, To seek him this way, o' my life thou art drunk, Or worse than drunk, hir'd to convey me hither To some base end; now I look on thee better, Thou hast a bawdy face, and I abhor thee, A beastly bawdy face, I'le go no further. _Sor._ Nay shrink not back, indeed you shall good Sister, Why do you blush? the good King will not hurt ye, He honours ye, and loves ye. _Evan._ Is this the business? _Sor._ Yes, and the best you ever will arrive at if you be wise. _Evan._ My Father was no bawd, Sir, Nor of that worshipful stock as I remember. _Sor._ [You] are a Fool. _Evan,_ You are that I shame to tell ye. _Fred._ Gentle _Evanthe._ _Evan._ The gracious Queen, Sir, Is well and merry, Heaven be thanked for it, And as I think she waits you in the Garden. _Fre._ Let her wait there, I talk not of her Garden, I talk of thee sweet Flower. _Evan._ Your Grace is pleasant, To mistake a Nettle for a Rose. _Fre._ No Rose, nor Lilly, nor no glorious Hyacinth Are of that sweetness, whiteness, tenderness, Softness, and satisfying blessedness As my _Evanthe._ _Evan._ Your Grace speaks very feelingly, I would not be a handsome wench in your way, Sir, For a new Gown. _Fred._ Thou art all handsomness, Nature will be asham'd to frame another Now thou art made, thou hast rob'd her of her cunning: Each several part about thee is a beauty. _Sor._ Do you hear this Sister? _Evan._ Yes, unworthy Brother, but all this will not do. _Fred._ But love _Evanthe_. Thou shalt have more than words, wealth, ease, and honours, My tender Wench. _Evan._ Be tender of my credit, And I shall love you, Sir, and I shall honour ye.