_Orian._ Now my cold, frosty Lord, my woman-Hater, you that have sworn an everlasting hate to all our sex: by my troth good Lord, and as I'm yet a maid, my thought 'twas excellent sport to hear your honor swear out an Alphabet, chafe nobly like a Generall, kick like a resty Jade, and make ill faces: Did your good Honor think I was in love? where did I first begin to take that heat? From those two radiant eyes, that piercing sight? oh they were lovely, if the balls stood right; and there's a leg made out of a dainty staff. Where, the Gods be thanked, there is calf enough. _Gond._ Pardon him Lady, that is now a convert[ite]. Your beauty, like a Saint hath wrought this wonder. _Oriana._ Alass, ha's it been prick'd at the heart? is the stomach come down? will it rail no more at women, and call 'em Divells, she Cats, and Goblins? _Gond._ He that shall marry thee, had better spend the poor remainder of his days in a dung-barge, for two pence a week, and find him self. Down again Spleen, I prethee down again, shall I find favour Lady? shall at length my true unfeigned penitence get pardon for my harsh unseasoned follies? I'm no more an Atheist, no I doe acknowledge, that dread powerfull Deity, and his all quic'kning heats burn in my breast: oh be not as I was, hard unrelenting; but as I [am], be partner of my fires. _Oria._ Sure we [shall] have store of Larks, the Skies will not hold up long, I should have look'd as soon for Frost in the dog days, or another Inundation, as hop'd this strange conversion above miracle: let me look upon your Lordship; is your name _Gondarino_? are you _Millains_ Generall, that great Bugbear bloody-bones, at whose name all women, from the Lady to the Landress, shake like a cold fit? _Gond._ Good patience help me, this Fever will inrage my blood again: Madam I'm that man; I'm even he that once did owe unreconcil'd hate to you, and all that bear the name of woman: I'm the man that wrong'd your Honor to the Duke: [I am hee] that said you were unchast, and prostitute, yet I'm he that dare deny all this. _Orian._ Your big Nobility is very merry. _Gond._ Lady 'tis true that I have wrong'd you thus, And my contritio[n] is as true as that, Yet have I found a means to make all good again, I doe beseech your beautie, not for my self, My merits are yet in conception, But for your honors safety and my zeal Retire a while, while I unsay my self unto the Duke, And cast out that [evill] Spirit I have possest him with, I have a house conveniently private. _Ori._ Lord, thou hast wrong'd my innocence, but thy confession hath gain'd thee faith. _Gond._ By the true honest service, that I owe th[o]se eyes My meaning is as spotless as my faith.