_Prisc._ Marry Lady, You, like a brave young Gallant must be robb'd. _Lady._ I robb'd? _Pris._ Nay then-- _Lady._ Well, well, go on, let's hear Sir. _Pris._ Here's a seal'd bag of a Hunder'd, which indeed Are Counters all, only some sixteen Groats Of white money i'th' mouth on't. _Lady._ So, what Saddle have I? _Pris._ Monsieur _Laroon_'s the _Frenchmans_. _Lady._ That agen, You know so well it is not for my stride, How oft have I complain'd on't? _Pris._ You may have [_Jockey's_] then, the little _Scotch_ one, You must dispatch. [_Exit_ Pris. _Lady._ I'll soon be ready, Sir, Before you ha shifted Saddles, many Women Have their wealth flow to 'em, I was made I see To help my fortune, not my fortune me. [_Exit._ _Enter_ Cuningam. _Cun._ My ways are Goblin-led, and the night-Elf Still draws me from my home, yet I follow, Sure, 'tis not altogether fabulous, Such Haggs do get dominion of our tongues So soon as we speak, the Inchantment binds; I have dissembled such a trouble on me, As my best wits can hardly clear agen; Piping through this old reed, the Guardianess, With purpose that my harmony shall reach And please the Ladies ear, she stops below, And ecchoes back my Love unto my Lips, Perswaded by most violent arguments Of self-love in her self; I am so self-fool, To doat upon her hunder'd wrinkl'd face; I could beggar her to accept the gifts She would throw upon me; 'twere charity, But for pities sake I will be a niggard And undo her, refusing to take from her; I'm haunted agen, if it take not now I'll break the Spell. _Enter Guardianess._ _Guard._ Sweet _Cuningam_, welcome; What? a whole day absent? Birds that build Nests Have care to keep 'em. _Cun._ That's granted, But not continually to sit upon 'em; Less in the youngling season, else they desire To fly abroad, and recreate their labours, Then they return with fresher appetite To work agen. _Guard._ Well, well, you have built a Nest That will stand all storms, you need not mistrust A weather-wrack, and one day it may be The youngling season too, then I hope You'll ne'er fly out of sight. _Cun._ There will be pains, I see to shake this Burr off, and sweetest, Prethee how fares thy charge? has my good friend Sir _Gregory_, the countenance of a Lover? _Guard._ No by my troth, not in my mind, methinks (Setting his Worship aside) he looks like a fool.