_Nic._ How lik’st thou this? I am made Gardian of my owne harts blisse, The Princesse is my Prisoner, I her Slaue, I keepe her Body, but shee holds my Heart Inuiron’d in a Chest of Adamant. _Scan._ Is your Heart Iron? _Nic._ Steele, I thinke it is; And liue an Anuile hammerd by her words, It sparkles fire that neuer can bee quencht, But by the dew of her cœlestiall breath. Oft haue I courted, bin reiected too, Yet what of that? I’le trye her once agen. What many Princes haue attempting fail’d, I by accesse may purchase, that’s my hope; The King I’me sure affects mee, nothing then Is wanting but her loue, that once obtain’d Sicill is ours: _Scanfardoe_? if we win, Thou shalt be Lord _Nicanor_ I the King. _Exeunt._ SCEN. II. _Enter_ MYSOGENOS _solus_. _Mis._ By this, my thundering Booke is prest abroad, I long to heare what a report it beares, I know ’t will startle all our Citie Dames, Worse then the roring Lyons, or the sound Of a huge double Canon, _Swetnams_ name, Will be more terrible in womens eares, Then euer yet in _Misogenysts_ hath beene. _Enter Clowne._ _Clow._ Puffe, giue me some ayre, I am almost stifled, puffe, Oh, my sides! _Mis._ From whence comm’st thou in such a puffing heate? Hast thou been running for a wager, _Swash_? Thou art horribly imbost. Where hast thou beene? My life, he was haunted with some Spirit. _Clow._ A Spirit? I thinke all the Deuils in Hell, Haue had a pinch at my hanches, I haue beene among the Furies, the Furies: A Pox on your Booke: I haue beene paid ifaith, You haue set all the women in the Towne in an vprore. _Mis._ Why, what’s the matter, _Swash_? _Clow._ Ne’r was poore _Swash_, so lasht, and pasht, And crasht and dasht, as I haue beene, Looke to your selfe, they’re vp in armes for you. _Mis._ Why, Haue they weapons, _Swash_? _Clow._ Weapons, Sir, I, Ile be sworne they haue. And cutting ones, I felt the smart of ’em, From the loines to the legs, from the head to th’ hams, From the Front to the foot, I haue not one free spot. Oh, I can shew you, Sir, such Characters. _Mis._ What dost thou mean, man, wilt shame thy selfe? _Clow._ Why, here’s none but you and I, Sir, is there? _Mis._ Good, good, ifaith. This was a braue Reuenge. _Clow._ If’t be so good, would you had had’t for me. _Mis._ And if I liue, I will make all the World To hate, as I doe, this affliction, Woman. _Clow._ But we shall be afflicted in th’ meane time. Pray let’s leaue this Land: if we stay heere, We shall be torne a-pieces: would we had kept In our owne Countrey, there w’are safe enough: You might haue writ and raild your bellifull, And few, or none would contradict you, Sir.