_Ger._ You thought so, You should have taken her then, turn'd her, and tew'd her I'th'strength of all her resolution, flatter'd her, And shak't her stubborn will: she would have thank'd ye, She would have lov'd ye infinitely, they must seem modest, It is their parts: if you had plaid your part Sir. And handl'd her as men do unman'd Hawks, Cast her, and malde her up in good clean linnen, And there have coyed her, you had caught her heart-strings. These tough Virginities they blow like white thornes In storms and tempests. _Otr._ She is beyond all this, As cold, and harden'd, as the Virgin Crystal. _Ger._ Oh force her, force her, Sir, she longs to be ravish'd Some have no pleasure but in violence; To be torn in pieces is their paradise: 'Tis ordinary in our Countrey, Sir, to ravish all They will not give a penny for their sport Unless they be put to it, and terribly, And then they swear they'll hang the man comes near 'em, And swear it on his lips too. _Otr._ No, no forcing, I have an other course, and I will follow it, I command you, and do you command your fellows, That when you see her next, disgrace, and scorn her, I'll seem to put her out o'th' dores o'th' sodain And leave her to conjecture, then seize on her. Away, be ready straight. _Ger._ We shall not fail, Sir. [_Exit._ _Otr. Florimel._ _Enter_ Florimell. _Flo._ My Lord. _Otr._ I am sure you have now consider'd And like a wise wench weigh'd a friends displeasure, Repented your proud thoughts, and cast your scorn off. _Flo._ My Lord, I am not proud, I was never beautiful. Nor scorn I any thing that's just and honest. _Otr._ Come, to be short, can ye love yet? you told me Kindness would far compell ye: I am kind to ye, And mean to exceed that way. _Flo._ I told ye too, Sir, As far as it agreed with modesty, With honour, and with honesty I would yield to ye: Good my Lord: take some other Theam: for Love, Alass, I never knew yet what it meant, And on the sudden Sir, to run through Volumes Of his most mystick art, 'tis most impossible; Nay, to begin with lust, which is an Heresie, A foul one too; to learn that in my childhood: O good my Lord. _Otr._ You will not out of this song, Your modesty, and honesty, is that all? I will not force ye. _Flo._ Ye are too noble, Sir. [_Otr._ Nor play the childish fool, and marry ye, I am yet not mad. _Flo._ If ye did, men would imagine.] _Otr._ Nor will I woo ye at that infinite price It may be you expect. _Flo._ I expect your pardon, And a discharge (my Lord) that's all I look for. _Otr._ No, nor fall sick for love. _Flo._ 'Tis a heathful year Sir. _Otr._ Look ye, I'll turn ye out o'dores, and scorn ye. _Flo._ Thank ye my Lord.