_Jul._ Such as love Goodness for glory, have it for reward; I love mine for it self: let innocence Be written on my Tomb, though ne're so humble, 'Tis all I am ambitious of. But I Forget my vows. _Boy._ 'Fore me you are not modest, Nor is this Courtlike. Would you take it well, If she should rudely press into your Closet, When from your several Boxes you choose paint, To make a this days face with? _Jul._ What's the matter? _Boy._ Pray know her pleasure first. _Jul._ To whom speak you Boy? _Boy._ Your Ladiships pardon. That proud Lady thief, That stole away my Lord from your embraces, (Wrinckles at two and twenty on her cheeks for't, Or _Mercury_ unallayed, make blisters on it) Would force a visit. _Jul._ And dare you deny her, Or any else that I call mine? No more, Attend her with all reverence and respect; The want in you of manners, my Lord may Construe in me for malice. I will teach you How to esteem and love the beauty he dotes on; Prepare a Banquet. _Enter_ Martia _and Boy._ Madam, thus my duty Stoops to the favor you vouchsafe your servant, In honouring her house. _Mart._ Is this in scorn? _Jul._ No by the life of _Virolet_: give me leave To swear by him, as by a Saint I worship, But am to know no farther, my heart speaks that My servants have been rude, and this boy (doting Upon my sorrows) hath forgot his duty: In which, that you may think I have no share, Sirra, upon your knees, desire her pardon. _Boy._ I dare not disobey you. _Mart._ Prethee rise, My anger never looks so low: I thank you. And will deserve it, if we may be private, I came to see and speak with you. _Jul._ Be gone. [_Exit Boy._ Good Madam sit. _Mart._ I rob you of your place then. _Jul._ You have deserv'd a better, in my bed; Make use of this too: Now your pleasure Lady. If in your breast there be a worthy pitty, That brings you for my comfort, you do nobly: But if you come to triumph in your conquest, Or tread on my calamities, 'twill wrong Your other excellencies. Let it suffice, That you alone enjoy the best of men, And that I am forsaken. _Mart._ He the best? The scum and shame of mankind. _Jul. Virolet_, Lady? _Mart._ Blest in him? I would my youth had chosen Consuming feavers, bed-rid age For my companions, rather then a thing To lay whose baseness open, would even poyson The tongue that speaks it. _Jul._ Certainly from you At no part he deserves this; and I tell you, Durst I pretend but the least title to him, I should not hear this.