_Vit._ That already, You have bestowed; a Ribbon, or a Glove. _Cla._ Nay, those are tokens for a waiting-maid To trim the Butler with. _Vit._ Your feather. _Cla._ Fie; the wenches give them to their serving-men. _Vit._ That little Ring. _Cla._ 'Twill hold you but by th' finger; And I would [have] you faster. _Vit._ Any thing That I may wear, and but remember you. _Cla._ This smi[l]e: my good opinion, or my self. But that it seems you like not. _Vit._ Yes, so well: When any smiles, I will remember yours; Your good opinion shall in weight poize me Against a thousand ill: Lastly, your self, My curious eye now figures in my heart, Where I will wear you, till the Table break. So, whitest Angels guard you. _Cla._ Stay Sir, I Have fitly thought to give, what you as fitly May not disdain to wear. _Vit._ What's that? _Cla._ This Sword. I never heard a man speak till this hour. His words are golden chains, and now I fear The Lyonesse hath met a tamer here: Fie, how his tongue chimes: what was I saying? Oh: this favour I bequeath you, which I tie In a Love-knot, fast, ne'er to hurt my friends; Yet be it fortunate 'gainst all your foes (For I have neither friend, nor foe, but yours) As e'er it was to me: I've kept it long, And value it, next my Virginity: But good, return it, for I now remember I vow'd, who purchas'd it, should have me too. _Vit._ Would that were possible: but alas it is not; Yet this assure your self, most honour'd _Clara_, I'll not infringe a particle of breath My vow hath offered to ye: nor from this part Whilst it hath edge, or point, or I a heart. [_Exit._ _Cla._ Oh, leave me living: what new exercise Is crept into my breast, that blauncheth clean My former nature? I begin to find I am a woman, and must learn to fight A softer sweeter battel, than with swords. I am sick methinks, but the disease I feel Pleaseth, and punisheth: I warrant love Is very like this, that folks talke of so; I skill not what it is, yet sure even here, Even in my heart, I sensibly perceive It glows, and riseth like a glimmering flame, But know not yet the Essence on't, nor name. [_Exit._ _Actus Tertius. Scæna Prima._ _Enter_ Malroda _and_ Alguazier. _Mal._ He must not? nor he shall not, who shall lett him? You politique _Diego_, with your face of wisdom; _Don-blirt_, the ---- on your Aphorismes, Your grave, and Sage-Ale Physiognomy: Do not I know thee for the _Alguazier_, Whose dunghil all the Parish Scavengers Could never rid? thou Comedy to men, Whose serious folly is a Butt for all To shoot their wits at; whilst thou hast not wit, Nor heart, to answer, or be angry. _Alg._ Lady.