_Jul._ Will you vex my soul forth? no other choice But where my hate is rooted? Come hither Girl, Whose pretty maid art thou? _Ism._ The child of a poor man, Sir. _Jul._ The better for it. With my Soveraigns leave, I'll wed thee to this man, will he, nill he. _Phil._ Pardon me, Sir, I'll be no Love enforcer: I use no power of mine unto those ends. _Jul._ Wilt thou have him? _Ism._ Not unless he love me. _Ant._ I do love thee: Farewell all other Beauties: I settle here: you are _Ismenia_. _Ism._ The same I was: better nor worse, (_Antonio_) _Ant._ I shall have your consent here, I'm sure, Sir. _Bel._ With all my heart, Sir. Nay, if you accept it, I'll do this kindness to mine enemy, And give her as a Father. _Ant._ Shee'll thank you as a Daughter. Will you not, _Ismenia_? _Bel._ How? _Ismenia?_ _Ism._ Your daughter, Sir. _Bel._ Is't possible? Away you feeble witted things, You thought you had caught the old ones: you wade, you wade In shallow fords: we can swim, we: look here, We made the match: we are all friends good friends; Thin, thin: why the fool knew all this, this fool. _Bust._ Keep that to your self, Sir; What I knew I knew: This sack is a witness. Miller, this is not for your thumming. Here's gold lace: you may see her in her holliday clothes if you will; I was her ward-robe-man. _Enter_ Martin, Aminta, _Constable, Officers_. _Ant._ You beguil'd me well, Sir. _Mar._ Did you speak to me, Sir? _Ant._ It might seem to you, _Martin_, your conscience Has quick ears. _Mar._ My sight was a little dim i'th' dark indeed, So was my feeling cozen'd; yet I'm content: I am the better understander now, I know my wife wants nothing of a woman; There y'are my _Junior_. _Ant._ You are not hurt? _Mar._ Not shrewdly hurt; I [h]ave good flesh to heal, you see, Good round flesh: these cherries will be worth chopping, Crack stones and all; I should not give much to boot To ride in your new, and you in my old ones now. _Ant._ You mistake the weapon: are you not hurt? _Mar._ A little scratch: but I shall claw it off well enough. _Enter_ Gillian. _Gill._ I can no longer own what is not mine With a free conscience: My Liege, your pardon. _Phil._ For what? who knows this woman? _Fra._ I best, my Lord, I have been acquainted with her these forty Summers, And as many Winters, were it Spring agen; She's like the Gout I can get no cure for her. _Phil._ Oh, your Wife, _Franio_? _Fra._ 'Tis oh my wife indeed, my Lord, A painful stitch to my side; would it were pick'd out. _Phil._ Well Sir, your silence.