_Flo._ I am ruin'd, Heaven will regard me yet, they are barbarous wretches: Let me not fall (my Lord.) _Otr._ You shall not _Florimell_: Mark how I'll work your peace, and how I honor ye. Who waits there? come all in. _Enter_ Gerasto _and Servants_. _Ger._ Your pleasure Sir. _Otr._ Who dare say this sweet beauty is not heavenly? This virgin, the most pure the most untainted, The holiest thing? _Ger._ We know it (my dear Lord) We are her slaves: and that proud impudence That dares disparage her, this sword (my Lord.) _1. Ser._ They are rascals, base, the sons of common women That wrong this virtue, or dare own a thought But fair and honorable of her: when we slight her, Hang us, or cut's in pieces: let's tug i'th' Gallies. _2 Ser._ Brand us for villains. _Flo._ Why sure I dream: these are all Saints. _Otr._ Go, and live all her slaves. _Ger._ We are proud to do it. [_Exeunt._ _Otr._ What think ye now? am not I able _Florimell_ Yet to preserve ye? _Flo._ I am bound to your Lordship, Ye are all honour, and good my Lord but grant me, Untill to morrow, leave to weigh my fortunes, I'll give you a free answer, perhaps a pleasing, Indeed I'll do the best I can to satisfie ye. _Otr._ Take your good time, this kiss, till then farewell, Sweet. [_Exeunt._ Actus Quartus. _Scæna Prima._ _Enter_ Antonio, Martine, Bustofa. _Mar._ By all means discharge your follower. _Ant._ If we can get him off: Sirrah _Bustofa_ Thou must needs run back. _Bust._ But I must not unless you send A Bier, or a Lictor at my back, I do not use to run From my friends. _Ant._ Well, go will serve turn: I have forgot. _Bust._ What Sir? _Ant._ See if I can think on't now. _Bust._ I know what 'tis now. _Ant._ A Pistolet of that. _Bust._ Done, you have forgot a devise to send me away, You are going a smocking perhaps. _Mar._ His own, due, due i'faith _Antonio_, The Pistolet's his own. _Ant._ I confess it, There 'tis: now if you could afford out of it A reasonable excuse to mine Uncle. _Bust._ Yes, I can: But an excuse will not serve your turn: it must be a lye, A full lye, 'twill do no good else: if you'll go to The price of that? _Ant._ Is a lye dearer than an excuse? _Bust._ Oh, treble; this is the price of an excuse: but a lye is two more: Look how many foyles go to a fair fall, so many excuses to A full lye, and less cannot serve your turn, let any Tailor I'th' Town make it. _Mar._ Why 'tis reasonable, give him his price: Let it be large enough now. _Bust._ I'll warrant you, cover him all over. _Ant._ I would have proof of one now.