_Wit._ I run o'er so much worth, going but in haste from you, All my deliberate friendship cannot equal. _Cun._ 'Tis but to shew, that you can place sometimes, _Enter_ Mirabell. Your modesty a top of all your virtues. [_Exit_ Wit. This Gentleman may pleasure me yet agen; I am so haunted with this broad-brim'd hat, Of the last progress block, with the young hat-band, Made for a sucking Devil of two years old, I know not where to turn my self. _Mir._ Sir? _Cun._ More torture? _Mir._ 'Tis rumor'd that you love me. _Cun._ A my troth Gentlewoman, Rumor's as false a knave as ever pist then, Pray tell him so from me; I cannot fain With a sweet Gentlewoman, I must deal down right. _Mir._ I heard, though you dissembled with my Aunt, Sir, And that makes me more confident. _Cun._ There's no falshood, But payes us our own some way, I confess I Fain'd with her, 'twas for a weightier purpose, But not with thee, I swear. _Mir._ Nor I with you then, Although my Aunt enjoyn'd me to dissemble, To right her splene, I love you faithfully. _Cun._ Light, this is worse than 'twas. _Mir._ I find such worth in you, I cannot, nay I dare not dally with you, For fear the flame consume me. _Cun._ Here's fresh trouble, This drives me to my conscience, for 'tis foul To injure one that deals directly with me. _Mir._ I crave but such a truth from your love, Sir, As mine brings you, and that's proportionable. _Cun._ A good Geometrician, 'shrew my heart; Why are you out o'your wits, pretty plump Gentlewoman, You talk so desperately? 'tis a great happiness, Love has made one on's wiser than another, We should be both cast away else; Yet I love gratitude, I must requite you, I shall be sick else, but to give you me, A thing you must not take, if you mean to live, For a' my troth I hardly can my self; No wise Physitian will prescribe me for you. Alass, your state is weak, you had need of Cordials, Some rich Electuary, made of a Son an Heir, An elder brother, in a Cullisse, whole, 'Tmust be some wealthy _Gregory_, boyl'd to a Jelly, That must restore you to the state of new Gowns, French Ruffs, and mutable head-tires. _Mir._ But, Where is he, Sir? One that's so rich will ne'er wed me with nothing. _Cun._ Then see thy Conscience, and thy wit together, Would'st thou have me then, that has nothing neither? What say you to _Fop Gregory_ the first, yonder? Will you acknowledge your time amply recompenc'd? Full satisfaction upon loves record? Without any more suit, if I combine you? _Mir._ Yes, by this honest kiss. _Cun._ You're a wise Clyent, To pay your fee before-hand, but all do so, You know the worst already, that's the best too. _Mir._ I know he's a fool.