_Mis._ You may be proud, I tell you, of my loue, There is a thousand Women in this Towne, To imbrace me, would clap their hands for ioy, And run like so many wild Cats. _Swa._ That they would, I dare be sworne for vm, And hang about him like so many Catch-poles, He would ne’r get from vm, And yet this happinesse is profer’d you. _Atl._ Which I cannot refuse, You haue, you know, such a preuayling tongue, No woman can deny you any thing. _Mis._ Why, that was kindly spoke. Where shall wee meet? _Atl._ Hearke in your eare, I’le tell you. _Mis._ Best of all. _Atl._ But— _Mis._ Doe you thinke mesuch a foole? _Atl._ Till then farewell: I’le speedily returne. _Ex. Atl._ _Mis._ Why law now, _Swash_, I told thee she would yeeld, No woman in the world can hold out long. Oh beware when a man of Art courts a woman. _Swa._ I, or a Fencer, Sir: We lay vm flat before vs. But, pray you tell me, Master, Doe you loue This Lasse sincerely? _Mis._ Ha, ha, ha. Loue? that were a iest indeed, To passe away the time for sport, or so; Th’are made for nothing else: And he that loues vm longer, is a foole. _Swa._ Me thinkes ’tis pittie to delude her, Sir: I’faith she’s a handsome wench. _Mis._ Away, you Asse. Delude? what are they good for else? _Enter_ Atlanta. She comes againe. Out of the Orchard, _Swash_. Welcome, Sweet heart. _Atl._ Are you in priuate, Sir? _Mis._ There’s not an eye vnder the Horizon That can behold vs; If Suspicion tell, I’le beat her blind as euer Fencer was. _Atl._ Sir, now you talke of Fencing, I heare you Professe that noble Science. _Mis._ ’Tis most true. _Atl._ I loue you, Sir, the better; ’tis a thing I honour with my heart. If any one Should scandalize or twit me with your loue, You can defend my fame, and make such men— _Mis._ Creepe on their knees, aske thee forgiuenesse, Or any other base submission. _Atl._ Oh, what a happinesse shall I inioy? But can can you doe this if occasion serue? _Mis._ Would some were here to make experience, That thou mightst see my skill. _Atl._ Sir, that will I. _Strike him._ _Mis._ How’s this? _Atl._ Impudent slaue, How dar’st thou looke a woman in the face, Or commence loue to any: Specially to mee? Thou know’st I’me vow’d thy publique enemie, Which this, and this, and this shall testifie. _Mis._ Oh that I had a weapon, thou shouldst know, A thousand women could not stand one blow, From my vnconquerd arme. _Atl._ That shall be tride. I’le fit you, Sir, in your owne element. I thinke thou darest not looke vpon a sword. See, there’s a foyle: I will but thumpe you, Sir. Thy life’s reseru’d vnto a worse reuenge. _Play._ _Mis._ Oh. Some Deuil’s enterd in this Idol sure, To make mee misbelieue. Oh.