_Clow._ Not for a Million, enfringe my oath? there's a toy call'd a Vow, has past between us, a poor trifle, Sir; Pray do me the part and office of a Gentleman, if you chance to meet a Footman by the way, in Orange tawny ribbands, running before an empty Coach, with a Buzard i'th' Poop on't, direct him and his horses toward the new River by _Islington_, there they shall have me looking upon the Pipes, and whistling. [_Exit_ Clow. _Cun._ A very good note; this love makes us all Monkeyes, But to my work: 'Scarfe first? and now a Diamond? these should be sure signs of her affections truth; Yet I'll go forward with my surer proof: [_Exit._ _Enter_ Neece, _and Sir_ Gregory. _Neece._ Is't possible? _Sir Greg._ Nay, here's his Letter too, there's a fine Jewel in't, Therefore I brought it to you. _Neece._ You tedious Mongril! Is't not enough To grace thee, to receive this from thy hand, A thing which makes me almost sick to do, But you must talk too? _Sir Greg._ I ha' done. _Neece._ Fall back, Yet backer, backer yet, you unmannerly puppy, Do you not see I'm going about to read it? _Sir Greg._ Nay, these are golden dayes, now I stay by't, She was wont not to endure me in her sight at all, The World mends, I see that. _Neece._ What an ambiguous Superscription's here! _To the best of Neeces._ Why that title may be mine, And more than her's: Sure I much wrong the neatness of his art; 'Tis certain sent to me, and to requite My cunning in the carriage of my Tokens, Us'd the same _Fop_ for his. _Sir Greg._ She nodded now to me, 'twill come in time. _Neece._ What's here? an entire _Rubye_, cut into a heart, And this the word, _Istud Amoris opus_? _Sir Greg._ Yes, yes, I have heard him say, that love is the best stone-cutter. _Neece._ Why thou sawcy issue of some travelling Sow-gelder, What makes love in thy mouth? Is it a thing That ever will concern thee? I do wonder How thou dar'st think on't! hast thou ever hope To come i' the same roome where lovers are; And scape unbrain'd with one of their velvet slippers? _Sir Greg._ Love tricks break out I see, and you talk of slippers once, 'Tis not far off to bed time. _Neece._ Is it possible thou canst laugh yet? I would ha' undertook to ha' kill'd a spider With less venome far, than I have spit at thee. _Sir Greg._ You must conceive, A Knight's another manner a piece of flesh. _Neece._ Back, Owles-face. _Within. O. K._ Do, do. _Neece._ 'Tis my Unckles voice, that. Why keep you so far off, _Sir Gregory_? Are you afraid, Sir, to come near your Mistriss? _Sir Greg._ Is the proud heart come down? I lookt for this still.