_Clean._ Why hang me If then ye be not married: if to morrow night, Ye doe not-- _Siph._ O dear Sister-- _Clean._ What ye wou'd doe, What ye desire to doe; lie with her: Devil, What a dull man are you! _Siph._ Nay I believe now, And shall she love me? _Clean._ As her life, and stroke ye. _Siph._ O I will be her Servant. _Clean._ 'Tis your dutie. _Siph._ And she shall have her whole will. _Clean._ Yes 'tis reason, She is a Princess, and by that rule boundless. _Si._ What wou'd you be? for I wou'd have ye Sister Chuse some great place about us: as her woman Is not so fit. _Clean._ No, no, I shall find places. _Siph._ And yet to be a Ladie of her bed-chamber, I hold not so fit neither, Some great title, believe it, shall be look't out. _Clean._ Ye may, a Dutchess Or such a toye, a small thing pleases me Sir. _Sip._ What you will Sister: if a neighbour Prince, When we shall come to raign-- _Clean._ We shall think on't, Be ready at the time, and in that place too, And let me work the rest, within this half hour The Princess will be going, 'tis almost morning, Away and mind your business. _Siph._ Fortune bless us. [_Exeunt._ _Enter King_, Polydor _and Lords_. _Pol._ I do beseech your grace to banish me. _King._ Why Gentleman, is she not worthy marriage? _Pol._ Most worthy, Sir, where worth again shall meet her, But I like thick clouds sailing slow and heavy, Although by her drawn higher, yet shall hide her, I dare not be a traitor; and 'tis treason, But to imagine: as you love your honour-- _King._ 'Tis her first maiden doting, and if crost, I know it kills her. _1 Lord._ How knows your grace she loves him? _King._ Her woman told me all (beside his story) Her maid _Lucippe_, on what reason too, And 'tis beyond all but enjoying. _Polydor._ Sir, Even by your wisdom; by that great discretion Ye owe to rule and order-- _2 Lord._ This man's mad sure, To plead against his fortune-- _1 Lord._ And the King too, Willing to have it so! _Pol._ By those dead Princes From whose descents ye stand a star admir'd at, Lay not so base a lay upon your vertues; Take heed, for honours sake take heed: the bramble No wise man ever planted by the rose, It cankers all her beauty; nor the vine When her full blushes court the sun, dares any Choke up with wanton Ivy: good my Lords, Who builds a monument, the Basis Jasper, And the main body Brick? _2 Lord._ Ye wrong your worth, Ye are a Gentleman descended nobly. _1 Lord._ In both bloods truly noble. _King._ Say ye were not, My will can make ye so.