_Claris._ I see brother The mark you shoot at, and much thank your love; But for my Virgin Jewel which is brought In comparison with your Diamond, rest assur'd It shall not fall in such a workmans hands Whose ignorance or malice shall have power To cast one cloud upon it, but still keep Her native splendor. _Cesa._ 'Tis well, I commend you; And study your advancement with that care As I would do a Sisters, whom I love With more than common order. _Claris._ That from me, I hope's return'd to you. _Cesar._ I do confess it, Yet let me tell you, (but still with that love, I wish to increase between us) that you are Observ'd against the gravity long maintain'd In _Italy_ (where to see a maid unmasqu'd Is [h]eld a blemish) to be over-frequent In giving or receiving visits. _Clari._ How? _Cesar._ Whereas the custom is here to wooe by Picture, And never see the substance: you are fair, And beauty draws temptations on; You know it, I would not live to see a willing grant From you, to one unworthy of your birth, Feature or fortune; yet there have been Ladies Of rank, proportion, and of means beyond you, That have prov'd this no miracle. _Claris._ One unworthy? Why, pray you gentle brother, who are they That I vouchsafe these bounties to? I hope In your strict Criticisme of me, and my manners, That you will not deny they are your equals. _Cesar._ Angry? _Claris._ I have reason, but in cold blood tell me, Had we not one Father? _Cesar._ Yes, and Mother too. _Claris._ And he a Soldier. _Cesar._ True. _Claris._ If I then borrow A little of the boldness of his temper, Imparting it to such as may deserve it; (However indulgent to your selves, you brothers Allow no part of freedom to your Sisters) I hope 'twill not pass for a crime in me, To grant access and speech to noble suitors; And you escape for innocent, that descend To a thing so far beneath you. Are you touch'd? Why did you think that you had _Giges_ Ring, Or the Herb that gives invisibility? Or that _Biancha's_ name had ne'er been mention'd; The fair Maid of the grand _Osteria_, brother. _Cesar._ No more. _Claris._ A little, brother. Your night walks, And offer'd presents; which coy she, contemn'd, Your combats in disguises with your Rivals, Brave _Muletiers_. Scullions perfum'd with grease, And such as [cry] meat for Cats must be remembred; And all this pother for a common trull, A tempting sign, and curiously set forth, To draw in riotous guests, a thing expos'd To every Ruffians rude assault; and subject For a poor salary, to a rich mans lust, Though made up of diseases. _Cesar._ Will you end yet? _Claris._ And this a Mistriss for _Albertus_ Son, One that I should call Sister?