_Soph._ It may be then, Her modesty requir'd a little violence? Some Women love to struggle. _Petru._ She had it, And so much that I sweat for't, so I did, But to no end: I washt an _Ethiope_; She swore my force might weary her, but win her I never could, nor should, till she consented; And I might take her body prisoner, But for her mind or appetite-- _Soph._ 'Tis strange; This woman is the first I ever read of, Refus'd a warranted occasion, And standing on so fair termes. _Petru._ I shall quit her. _Soph._ Us'd you no more art? _Petru._ Yes, I swore to her, And by no little ones, if presently Without more disputation on the matter, She grew not nearer to me, and dispatcht me Out of the [pain] I was, for I was nettl'd, And willingly, and eagerly, and sweetly, I would to her Chamber-maid, and in her hearing Begin her such a huntes-up. _Soph._ Then she started? _Petru._ No more than I do now; marry she answered If I were so dispos'd, she could not help it; But there was one call'd _Jaques_, a poor Butler One that might well content a single woman. _Soph._ And he should tilt her. _Petru._ To that sence, and last She bad me yet these six nights look for nothing Nor strive to purchase it, but fair good night And so good morrow, and a kiss or two To close my stomach, for her vow had seal'd it, And she would keep it constant. _Soph._ Stay ye, stay ye, Was she thus when you woo'd her? _Petru._ Nothing _Sophocles_, More keenely eager, I was oft afraid She had been light, and easie, she would showre Her kisses so upon me. _Soph._ Then I fear An other spoke's i'th wheele. _Petru._ Now thou hast found me, There gnawes my Devil, _Sophocles_, O patience Preserve me; that I make her not example By some unworthy way; as fleaing her, Boyling, or making verjuice, drying her. _Soph._ I hear her. _Petru._ Mark her then, and see the heir Of spight and prodigality, she has studied A way to begger's both, and by this hand [Maria _at the dore, and Servant and Woman._ She shall be, if I live, a Doxy. _Soph._ Fy Sir. _Mar._ I do not like that dressing, tis too poor, Let me have six gold laces, broad and massy, And betwixt ev'ry lace a rich Embroydry, Line the Gown through with Plush perfum'd, and purffle All the sleeves down with Pearl. _Petru._ What think you _Sophocles_. In what point stands my state now? _Mar._ For those hangings Let'em be carried where I gave appointment, They are too base for my use, and bespeak New Pieces of the Civil Wars of _France_, Let 'em be large and lively, and all silk work, The borders Gold. _Soph._ I marry sir, this cuts it.