_Sir Greg._ What, is't he? My Man that was? _Cun._ Call him your deadly Enemy; You give him too fair a name, you deal too nobly, He bears a bloody mind, a cruel foe, Sir, I care not if he heard me. _Sir Greg._ But, Do you hear, Sir? Can't sound with reason she should affect him? _Cun._ Do you talk of reason? I never thought to have heard Such a word come from you; reason in love? Would you give that, no Doctor could e'er give? Has not a Deputy married his Cook-maid? An Aldermans Widow, one that was her turn-broach? Nay, Has not a great Lady brought her Stable Into her Chamber: lay with her Horse-keeper? _Sir Greg._ Did ever love play such Jades tricks, Sir? _Cun._ Oh thousands, thousands: Beware a sturdy Clown e're while you live, Sir; 'Tis like a huswifery in most Shires about us; You shall ha' Farmers Widows wed thin Gentlemen, Much like your self, but put'em to no stress; What work can they do, with small trap-stick legs? They keep Clowns to stop gaps, and drive in pegs, A drudgery fit for Hindes, e'en back agen, Sir, Your're safest at returning. _Sir Greg._ Think you so, Sir? _Cun._ But, How came this Clown to be call'd _Pompey_ first? _Sir Greg._ Push, one good-man _Cæsar_, a Pump-maker kersen'd him; _Pompey_ he writes himself, but his right name's _Pumpey_, And stunk too when I had him, now he's crank. _Cun._ I'm glad I know so much to quell his pride, Sir, Walk you still that way, I'll make use of this, To resolve all my doubts, and place this favor On some new Mistriss, only for a try, And if it meet my thoughts, I'll swear 'tis I. [_Exit._ _Sir Greg._ Is _Pompey_ grown so malepert? so frampel? The onely cutter about Ladies honors? _Enter Old Knight._ And his blade soonest out? _O. K._ Now, What's the news, Sir? _Sir Gre._ I dare not say but good; oh excellent good, Sir. _O. K._ I hope now you're resolv'd she loves you, Knight? _Sir Gr._ Cuds me, What else Sir? that's not to do now. _O. K._ You would not think how desperately you anger'd me, When you bely'd her goodness; oh you vext me, Even to a Palsey. _Sir Greg._ What a thing was that Sir? _Enter_ Neece. _Neece._ 'Tis, that 'tis; as I have hope of sweetness, the Scarfe's gone; Worthy wise friend, I doat upon thy cunning, We two shall be well matcht, our Issue-male, sure Will be born Counsellors; is't possible? Thou shalt have another token out of hand for't; Nay, since the way's found, pitty thou shouldst want, y'faith, O my best joy, and dearest. _O. K._ Well said, Neece, So violent 'fore your Uncle? What will you do In secret then? _Sir Greg._ Marry call me slave, and rascal. _Neece._ Your Scarfe--the Scarfe I gave you--