_Petro._ A Song, pray silence. [_All the Women above. Citizens and Countrey _Mor._ They look out. women._ _Petru._ Good ev'n Ladies. _Mar._ Good you good ev'n Sir. _Petru._ How have you slept to night? _Mar._ Exceeding well Sir. _Petru._ Did you not wish me with you? _Mar._ No, believe me, I never thought upon you. _Cun._ Is that he? _Bya._ Yes. _Cun._ Sir? _Soph._ She has drank hard, mark her Hood. _Cun._ You are-- _Soph._ Learnedly drunk, I'll hang else: let her utter. _Cun._ And I must tell you, _viva voce_ friend, A very foolish fellow. _Tra._ There's an Ale figure. _Petru._ I thank you _Susan Brotes_. _Cit._ Forward Sister. _Cun._ You have espoused here a hearty woman, A comly, and courageous. _Petru._ Well, I have so. _Cun._ And to the comfort of distressed damsels, Women out-worn in wedlock; and such vessels, This woman has defied you. _Petru._ It should seem so. _Cun._ And why? _Petru._ Yes, can you tell? _Cun._ For thirteen causes. _Petru._ Pray by your patience Mistriss. _Cit._ Forward Sister. _Petru._ Do you mean to treat of all these? _Cit._ Who shall let her? _Petro._ Do you hear, Velvet hood, we come not now To hear your doctrine. _Cun._ For the first, I take it, It doth divide it self into seven branches. _Petru._ Hark you good _Maria_, Have you got a Catechiser here? _Tra._ Good zeal. _Soph._ Good three pil'd predication, will you peace, And hear the cause we come for? _Cun._ Yes bob-tails We know the cause you come for, here's the cause, But never hope to carry her, never dream Or flatter your opinions with a thought Of base repentance in her. _Cit._ Give me Sack, By this, and next strong Ale. _Cun._ Swear forward Sister. _Cit._ By all that's cordial, in this place we'll bury Our bones, fames, tongues, our triumphs and [then] all That ever yet was chronicl'd of woman; But this brave wench, this excellent despiser, This bane of dull obedience, shall inherit His liberal Will, and march off with conditions Noble, and worth her self. _Cun._ She shall _Tom Tilers_, And brave ones too, my Hood shall make a Hearse-cloth, And I'll lie under it like _Jone o' Gaunt_, E'r I go less, my Distaff stuck up by me, For the eternal Trophy of my conquests; And loud fame at my head with two main bottles, Shall fill to all the world the glorious fall Of old _Don Gillian_. _Cit._ Yet a little further, We have taken Arms in rescue of this Lady; Most just and Noble: if ye beat us off Without conditions, and we recant, Use us as we deserve; and first degrade us Of all our antient chambring: next that The Symbols of our secresie, silk Stockings, Hew of our heels; our petticoats of Arms Tear off our bodies, and our Bodkins break Over our coward heads.