_1 Gent._ Look, who comes here Sir, his love-fit's upon him: I know it, by that sett smile, and those congies. How courteous he's to nothing! which indeed, Is the next kin to woman; only shadow The elder Sister of the twain, because 'tis seen too. See how it kisses the fore-finger still; Which is the last edition, and being come So near the thumb, every Cobler has got it. _Sham._ What a ridiculous piece, humanity Here makes it self! _1 Gent._ Nay good give leave a little, Sir, Y'are so precise a manhood-- _Sham._ It afflicts me When I behold unseemliness in an Image So near the Godhead, 'tis an injury To glorious Eternity. _1 Gent._ Pray use patience, Sir. _Pas._ I do confess it freely, precious Lady, And loves suit is so, the longer it hangs The worse it is; better cut off, sweet Madam; Oh, that same drawing in your neather Lip there, Fore-shews no goodness, Lady; make you question on't? Shame on me, but I love you. _1 Gent._ Who is't Sir, You are at all this pains for? may I know her? _Pas._ For thee thou fairest, yet the falsest woman, That ever broke man's heart-strings. _1 Gent._ How? how's this Sir? _Pas._ What the old trick of Ladies? man's apparel, Will't ne'er be left amongst you? steal from Court in't? _1 Gent._ I see the Fit grows stronger. _Pas._ Pray let's talk a little. _Sham._ I can endure no more. _1 Gent._ Good, let's alone a little: You are so exact a work: love light things somewhat, Sir. _Sham._ Th'are all but shames. _1 Gent._ What is't you'd say to me, Sir? _Pas._ Can you be so forgetful to enquire it Lady? _1 Gent._ Yes truely, Sir. _Pas._ The more I admire your flintiness: What cause have I given you, illustrious Madam, To play this strange part with me? _1 Gent._ Cause enough, Do but look back Sir, into your memory, Your love to other women, oh lewd man: 'Tas almost kill'd my heart, you see I'm chang'd with it, I ha' lost the fashion of my Sex with grief on't, When I have seen you courting of a Dowdie; Compar'd with me, and kissing your fore-finger To one o'th' Black-Guards Mistresses: would not this Crack a poor Ladies heart, that believ'd love, And waited for the comfort? but 'twas said, Sir, A Lady of my hair cannot want pittying: The Countrey's coming up, farewel to you Sir. _Pas._ Whither intend you, Sir? _1 Gent._ A long journey, Sir: The truth is, I'm with child, and goe to travel. _Pas._ With child? I never got it. _1 Gent._ I heard you were busie At the same time, Sir, and was loth to trouble you. _Pas._ Why, are not you a whore then, excellent Madam? _1 Gent._ Oh by no means, 'twas done Sir in the state Of my belief in you, and that quits me; It lies upon your falshood.