_Liv._ Behind, Laid out upon a Petticoat: or graspe me While I cry, Oh good thank you? o'my troth Thou mak'st me merry with thy fear: or lie with me. As you may do? alas, what fools you men are? His mouldy money? half a dozen Riders, That cannot sit, but stampt fast to their Saddles? No _Rowland_, no man shall make use of me; My beauty was born free, and free I'll give it To him that loves, not buys me. You yet doubt me. _Row._ I cannot say I doubt ye. _Liv._ Goe thy ways, Thou art the prettiest puling piece of passion: Y'faith I will not fail thee. _Row._ I had rather-- _Liv._ Prethee believe me, if I do not carry it, For both our goods-- _Row._ But-- _Liv._ What but? _Row._ I would tell you. _Liv._ I know all you can tell me; all's but this, You would have me, and lie with me; is't not so? _Row._ Yes. _Liv._ Why you shall; will that content you? Goe. _Row._ I am very loth to goe. _Enter_ Byancha _and_ Maria. _Liv._ Now o' my conscience Thou art an honest fellow: here's my Sister; Go, prethee go; this kiss, and credit me, E'r I am three nights older, I am for thee: You shall hear what I do. Farewel. _Row._ Farewel. [_Exit_ Rowland. _Liv._ Alas poor fool, how it looks! It would ev'n hang it self, should I but cross it. For pure love to the matter I must hatch it. _Bya._ Nay, never look for merry hour, _Maria_, If now you make it not; let not your blushes, Your modesty, and tenderness of spirit, Make you continual Anvile to his anger: Believe me, since his first wife set him going, Nothing can bind his rage: Take your own council, You shall not say that I perswaded you. But if you suffer him-- _Mar._ Stay, shall I do it? _Bya._ Have you a stomach to't? _Mar._ I never shew'd it. _Bya._ 'Twill shew the rarer and the stronger in you. But do not say I urg'd you. _Mar._ I am perfect, Like _Curtius_, to redeem my Countrey, I have Leap'd into this gulph of marriage, and I'll do it. Farewel all poorer thoughts, but spight and anger, Till I have wrought a miracle. Now cosin, I am no more the gentle, tame _Maria_; Mistake me not; I have a new soul in me Made of a North wind, nothing but tempest; And like a tempest shall it make all ruin, Till I have run my Will out. _Bya._ This is brave now, If you continue it; but your own Will lead you. _Mar._ Adieu all tenderness, I dare continue; Maids that are made of fears, and modest blushes, View me, and love example. _Bya._ Here is your Sister. _Mar._ Here is the brave old mans love. _Bya._ That loves the young man. _Mar._ I and hold thee there wench: what a grief of heart is't? When _Paphos_ Revels should rowze up old night, To sweat against a Cork; to lie and tell The clock o'th lungs, to rise sport starv'd? _Liv._ Dear Sister, Where have you been, you talk thus?