_Are._ You doe imagine, No doubt, you have talk'd wisely, and confuted, London past all defence, your Master should Doe well to send you backe into the countrie, With title of Superintendent Baylie. _Ste._ How Madam. _Are._ Even so sir. _Ste._ I am a Gentleman though now your servant. _Are._ A country-gentleman, By your affection to converse with stuble, His tenants will advance your wit, and plumpe it so With beefe and bag-pudding. _Ste._ You may say your pleasure, It becomes not me dispute. _Are._ Complaine to the Lord of the soyle your master. _Ste._ Y'are a woman of an ungovern'd passion, and I pitty you. _Enter Sir Thomas Bornwell._ _Bor._ How how? Whats the matter? _Ste._ Nothing Sir. _Bor._ Angry sweeteheart? _Are._ I am angry with my selfe, To be so miserably restrained in things, Wherein it doth concern your love and honour To see me satisfied. _Bor._ In what _Aretina_? Dost thou accuse me? have I not obeyd All thy desires, against mine owne opinion, Quitted the countrie, and removed the hope Of our returne, by sale of that faire Lordship We liv'd in, chang'd a calme and retire life For this wild towne, composd of noise and charge. _Are._ What charge more than is necessarie, For a lady of my birth and education? _Bor._ I am not Ignorant, how much Nobilitie Flowes in your bloud, your kinsmen great and powerfull, I'th State, but with this lose not your memory Of being my wife, I shall be studious Madam to give the dignitie of your birth All the best ornaments which become my fortune But would not flatter it, to ruine both, And be the fable of the towne, to teach Other men losse of wit by mine, emploid To serve your vast expences. _Are._ Am I then Brought in the ballance? so Sir. _Bo._ Though you weigh Me in a partiall scale my heart is honest, And must take libertie to thinke you have Obeyed no modest counsell to effect, Nay study wayes of pride and costly ceremony, Your change of gaudy furniture and pictures, Of this Italian Master, and that Dutchmans. Your mighty looking-glasses like Artillery; Brought whom on Engins the superfluous plate, Anticke and novell, vanities of fires, Fourescore pound suppers for my Lord your kinsman, Banquets for tother Lady, aunt, and cozens, And perfumes that exceede all traine of servants, To stifle us at home and shew abroad More motley than the French, or the Venetian, About your Coach whose rude Postillion Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers And tradsmen curse your choaking up their stalls; And common cries pursue your Ladiship, For hindring o'their market. _Are._ Have you done sir.