_Orl._ In my daughter you will say! Does she live then? I am sorry I wasted tears upon a harlot! but the best is, I have a handkerchief to drink them up, soap can wash them all out again. Is she poor? _Hip._ Trust me, I think she is. _Orl._ Then she’s a right strumpet. I never knew one of their trade rich two years together; sieves can hold no water, nor harlots hoard up money: taverns, tailors, bawds, panders, fiddlers, swaggerers, fools, and knaves, do all wait upon a common harlot’s trencher; she is the gallypot to which these drones fly: not for love to the pot, but for the sweet sucket in it, her money, her money. _Hip._ I almost dare pawn my word, her bosom gives warmth to no such snakes; when did you see her? _Orl._ Not seventeen summers. _Hip._ Is your hate so old? _Orl._ Older; it has a white head, and shall never die ‘till she be buried: her wrongs shall be my bed-fellow. _Hip._ Work yet his life, since in it lives her fame. _Orl._ No, let him hang, and half her infamy departs out of the world; I hate him for her: he taught her first to taste poison; I hate her for herself, because she refused my physic. _Hip._ Nay, but Friscobaldo. _Orl._ I detest her, I defy both, she’s not mine, she’s— _Hip._ Hear her but speak. _Orl._ I love no mermaids, I’ll not be caught with a quail-pipe. _Hip._ You’re now beyond all reason. Is’t dotage to relieve your child, being poor? _Orl._ ’Tis foolery; relieve her? Were her cold limbs stretcht out upon a bier, I would not sell this dirt under my nails, to buy her an hour’s breath, nor give this hair, unless it were to choak her. _Hip._ Fare you well, for I’ll trouble you no more. [_Exit._ _Orl._ And fare you well, Sir, go thy ways; we have few lords of thy making, that love wenches for their honesty.—‘Las, my girl, art thou poor? Poverty dwells next door to despair, there’s but a wall between them: despair is one of hell’s catchpoles, and lest that devil arrest her, I’ll to her; yet she shall not know me: she shall drink of my wealth as beggars do of running water, freely; yet never know from what fountain’s head it flows. Shall a silly bird pick her own breast to nourish her young ones: and can a father see his child starve? That were hard: the pelican does it, and shall not I?’