_Mis._ No, no, thou art as wide, as short in my disease: Thou neuer canst imagine what it is, Vnlesse, I tell thee. _Swash_, I am in loue. _Swash._ Ha, ha, ha, in loue? _Mis._ Nay, ’tis such a wonder, _Swash_, I scarce beleeue, It can be so, my selfe, and yet it is. _Swash._ The Deuill it is as soone, and sooner too: You loue the Deuill, better then a woman. _Mis._ Oh, doe not say so, _Swash_, I doe recant. _Swash._ In loue? not possible: This is some tempting Syren has bewitcht you. _Mis._ Oh! peace, good _Swash_. _Swash._ Some Cockatrice, the very Curse of man? _Mis._ No more, if thou dost loue me. _Swash._ Your owne words. I know not how to please you better, Sir. Will you from Oratour, turne Heretike, And sinne against your owne Conscience? _Mis._ Oh, _Swash, Swash_! _Cupid_, the little Fencer playd his Prize, At seuerall weapons in _Atlanta’s_ eyes, He challeng’d me, we met and both did try His vtmost skill, to get the Victorie. Lookes were oppos’d ’gainst lookes, and stead of words, Were banded frowne ’gainst frowne, and words ’gainst words But cunning _Cupid_ forecast me to recoile: For when he plaid at sharpe, I had the foyle. _Swash._ Nay, now he is in loue, I see it plaine: I was inspir’d with this Poeticall vaine, When I fell first in loue: God bo’y yee, Sir: I must goe looke another Master. _Mis._ _Swash._ _Swash._ Y’are a dead man: beleeue it, Sir, I would not giue two-pence for a Lease Of a hundred pound a yeere made for your life. Can you that haue bin at defiance with vm all, Abused, arraigned vm, hang’d vm, if you could: You hang’d vm more then halfe, you tooke away All their good names, I’me sure, can you then hope, That any will loue you? A Ladie, Sir, Will sooner meet a Tinker in the street, And try what Metall lyes within his Budget, A Countesse lye with me, an Emperour Take a poore Milke-maide, Sir, to be his Wife, Before a Kitchen-Wench will fancie you. _Mis._ Doe not torment me, misbeleeuing Dolt, I tell thee, I doe loue, and must enioy. _Swash._ Who, in the name of women, should this bee? _Mis._ What an obtuse Conception do’st thou beare? Did not I tell thee, ’twas _Atlanta, Swash_? _Swash._ Who, she Amazonian Dame, your Aduocate, A Masculine Feminine? _Mis._ I, _Swash_, She must be more then Female, has the power To mollifie the temper of my Loue. _Swash._ Why, she’s the greatest enemie you haue. _Mis._ The greater is my glorie, _Swash_, in that That hauing vanquisht all, I attaine her. The Prize consists alone In my eternall credit and renowne. Oh, what a Race of wittie Oratours Shall we beget betwixt vs: Come, good _Swash_, Ile write a Letter to her presently, Which thou shalt carry: if thou speedst, I sweare, Thou shalt be _Swetnams_ Heire. _Swash._ The Deuill I feare, Will dispossesse me of that Heritage. _Enter two Gentlemen._