_An._ No, my lord, D'Ambois neglects her (as shee takes it) and is therefore suspicious that either your lady, or the lady Beaupre, hath closely entertain'd him. 240 _Mont._ Ber lady, a likely suspition, and very neere the life--especially of my wife. _Mons._ Come, we'l disguise all with seeming onely to have courted.--Away, dry palm! sh'as a livor as dry as a bisket; a man may goe a 245 whole voyage with her, and get nothing but tempests from her windpipe. _Gui._ Here's one (I think) has swallowed a porcupine, shee casts pricks from her tongue so. _Mont._ And here's a peacock seemes to have 250 devour'd one of the Alpes, she has so swelling a spirit, & is so cold of her kindnes. _Char._ We are no windfalls, my lord; ye must gather us with the ladder of matrimony, or we'l hang till we be rotten. 255 _Mons._ Indeed, that's the way to make ye right openarses. But, alas, ye have no portions fit for such husbands as we wish you. _Per._ Portions, my lord! yes, and such portions as your principality cannot purchase. 260 _Mons._ What, woman, what are those portions? _Per._ Riddle my riddle, my lord. _Mons._ I, marry, wench, I think thy portion is a right riddle; a man shall never finde it out: but let's heare it. 265 _Per._ You shall, my lord. _What's that, that being most rar's most cheap? That when you sow, you never reap? That when it growes most, most you [th]in it, And still you lose it, when you win it? 270 That when tis commonest, tis dearest, And when tis farthest off, 'tis neerest?_ _Mons._ Is this your great portion? _Per._ Even this, my lord. _Mons._ Beleeve me, I cannot riddle it. 275 _Per._ No, my lord; tis my chastity, which you shall neither riddle nor fiddle. _Mons._ Your chastity! Let me begin with the end of it; how is a womans chastity neerest man, when tis furthest off? 280 _Per._ Why, my lord, when you cannot get it, it goes to th'heart on you; and that I think comes most neere you: and I am sure it shall be farre enough off. And so wee leave you to our mercies. _Exeunt Women._ _Mons._ Farewell, riddle. 285 _Gui._ Farewell, medlar. _Mont._ Farewell, winter plum. _Mons._ Now, my lords, what fruit of our inquisition? feele you nothing budding yet? Speak, good my lord Montsurry. 290 _Mont._ Nothing but this: D'Ambois is thought negligent in observing the Duchesse, and therefore she is suspicious that your neece or my wife closely entertaines him.