_Mir._ I must tell you a thing in your ear, and you must hear me, And hear me willingly, and grant me so too, 'Twill not be worth my asking else. _Luc._ It must be A very hard thing Sir, and from my power, I shall deny your goodness. _Mir._ 'Tis a good wench; I must lye with ye Lady. _Luc._ 'Tis something strange: For yet in all my life I knew no bedfellow. _Mir._ You will quickly find that knowledge. _Luc._ To what end Sir? _Mir._ Art thou so innocent, thou canst not guess at it? Did thy dreams never direct thee? _Luc._ 'Faith none yet Sir. _Mir._ I'll tell thee then: I would meet thy youth, and pleasure; Give thee my youth for that, by heaven she fires me, And teach thy fair white arms, like wanton Ivies A thousand new embraces. _Luc._ Is that all Sir? And say I should try, may we not lie quietly? Upon my conscience I could. _Mir._ That's as we make it. _Luc._ Grant that, that likes ye best, what would ye do, then? _Mir._ What would I do? certainly I am no baby, Nor brought up for a Nun; hark in thine ear. _Luc._ Fie, fie, Sir. _Mir._ I would get a brave boy on thee, A warlike boy. _Luc._ Sure we shall get ill Christians. _Mir._ We'll mend 'em in the breeding then. _Luc._ Sweet Master. _Col._ Never belief in woman come near me more. _Luc._ My best and noblest Sir, if a poor Virgin, (For yet by ---- I am so) should chance so far (Seeing your excellence, and able sweetness) To forget her self, and slip into your bosome, Or to your bed, out of a doting on ye, Take it the best way; have you that cruel heart, That murd'ring mind too? _Mir._ Yes by my troth (sweet) have I, To lie with her. _Luc._ And do you think it well done? _Mir._ That's as she'll think when 'tis done; come to bed wench, For thou art so pretty, and so witty a companion, We must not part to night. _Luc._ Faith let me go Sir, And think better on't. _Mir._ Yfaith thou shalt not; I warrant thee I'll think on't. _Luc._ I have heard 'em say here, You are a Maid too. _Mir._ I am sure I am, wench, If that will please thee. _Luc._ I have seen a wonder, And would you loose that for a little wantonness, (Consider my sweet Master, like a man, now,) For a few honied kisses, sleight embraces, That glory of your youth that crown of sweetness? Can ye deliver that unvalued treasure? Would ye forsake, to seek your own dishonor, What gone, no age recovers, nor repentance, To a poor stranger? _Col._ Hold there again, thou art perfect. _Luc._ I know you do but try me. _Mir._ And I know I'll try you a great deal farther: prethee to bed; I love thee, and so well: come kiss me once more; Is a maiden-head ill bestow'd o'me? _Luc._ What's this Sir?