_Flo._ Do not, you will loose your labor, Do not my Lord, it will become ye poorly: Your courtesie may do much on my nature, For I am kind as you are, and as tender: If you compel, I have my strengths to flye to, My honest thoughts, and those are guards about me: I can cry too, and noise enough I dare make, And I have curses, that will call down thunder, For all I am a poor wench, heaven will hear me: My body you may force, but my will never; And be sure I do not live if you do force me, Or have no tongue to tell your beastly Story, For if I have, and if there be a justice. _Otr._ Pray ye go in here: I'll calm my self for this time. And be your friend again. _Flo._ I am commanded. [_Exit._ _Otr._ You cannot scape me, yet I must enjoy ye, I'll lie with thy wit, though I miss thy honesty: Is this a wench for a Boors hungry bosom? A morsel for a Peasants base embraces? And must I starve, and the meat in my mouth? I'll none of that. _Enter_ Gerasto. _Ger._ How now my Lord, how sp[e]d ye? Have ye done the deed? _Otr._ No, pox upon't, she is honest. _Ger._ Honest, what's that? you take her bare denial, Was there ever wench brought up in a mill, and honest? That were a wonder worth a Chronicle, Is your belief so large? what did she say to ye? _Otr._ She said her honesty was all her dowry, And preach'd unto me, how unfit, and homely, Nay how dishonourable it would seem in me To act my will; popt me i'th mouth with modesty. _Ger._ What an impudent Quean was that! that's their trick ever. _Otr._ And then discours'd to me very learnedly What fame and loud opinion would tell of me: A wife she touch'd at. _Ger._ Out upon her Varlet. Was she so bold? these home-spun things are [d]evils, They'll tell ye a thousand lies, if you'll believe 'em; And stand upon their honors like great Ladies, They'll speak unhappily too: good words to cozen ye, And outwardly seem Saints: they'll cry down-right also, But 'tis for anger that you do not crush 'em. Did she not talk of being with child? _Otr._ She toucht at it. _Ger._ The trick of an arrant whore to milk your Lordship; And then a pension nam'd? _Otr._ No, no, she scorn'd it: I offer'd any thing, but she refus'd all, Refus'd it with a confident hate.