_Bar._ My Mistriss? I tell thee gentle Nephew, There is not such another friend to goodness, To down-right dealing, to faith and true heart Within the Christian confines: Before she blest us, Justice was a Cheese-monger, a meer Cheese-monger, Weigh'd nothing to the world but Mites and Maggots, And a main stink: Law like a Horse-courser, Her rules, and precepts hung with gawdes and ribbonds And pamper'd up to cousen him that bought her, When she her self was hackney, lame, and founder'd. _Sil._ But the sweet Lady, _Belvidere_ the bright one-- _Bar._ I, there's a face indeed: Oh my dear Nephew, Could a young fellow of thy fiery mettle Freeze, and that Lady in his Arms? _Sil._ I think not. _Bar._ Thou hast a parlous judgement; but let that pass, She is as truly virtuous, fair, and noble, As her great Mother's good: and that's not ordinary. _Sil._ But why (so many Princes, and so great ones Being Suitors) should the Dutchess deny to match her? _Bar._ She is a Jewel man, hangs in her bosom, Her only Child: with her eies she sees all things, Discourses with her tongue, and pluck her from her (So dotingly the old one loves her young one) You pluck her heart out too: Besides, of late daies, The Duke of _Milan_, who could never win her By Love, nor Treaty, laid a close train for her In her own private Walks: some forty Horse-men, So to surprize her; which we found, and dealt with, And sent 'em running home to the Duke their Master, Like Dogs with bottles at their tails. _Sil._ Since that, I heard Sir, She has sent her to your Cittadel to secure her, My cosin _Rodope_, your wife attending her. _Bar._ You hear a truth, and all convenient pleasures Are there proportion'd for her. _Sil._ I would fain, Sir, Like one that owes a dutious service to her Sometimes so please you-- _Bar._ Gentle Cosin pardon me, I must not, nor you must not dare to offer, The last Edict lies on his life pursues it; Your friend, Sir, to command, abroad to love you To lend ye any thing I have, to wait upon ye, But in the Cittadel where I stand charg'd, Not a bit upon a march: no service, Sir, No, good Sir by no means: I kiss your hands, Sir. [_Exit._