_Rog_. Not till the man be in his bed, his grave: his grave, his bed: the very same again Sir. Our Comick Poet gives the reason sweetly; _Plenus rimarum est_, he is full of loope-holes, and will discover to our Patroness. _Wel_. Your comment Sir has made me understand you. _Enter_ Martha _the_ Ladies _Sister_, _and_ Younglove, _to them with a Posset_. _Rog_. Sir be addrest, the graces do salute you with the full bowl of plenty. Is our old enemy entomb'd? _Abig_. He's safe. _Rog_. And does he snore out supinely with the Poet? _Mar_. No, he out-snores the Poet. _Wel_. Gentlewoman, this courtesie shall bind a stranger to you, ever your servant. _Mar_. Sir, my Sisters strictness makes not us forget you are a stranger and a Gentleman. _Abig_. In sooth Sir, were I chang'd into my Lady, a Gentleman so well indued with parts, should not be lost. _Wel_. I thank you Gentlewoman, and rest bound to you. See how this foul familiar chewes the Cud: From thee, and three and fifty good Love deliver me. _Mar_. Will you sit down Sir, and take a spoon? _Wel_. I take it kindly, Lady. _Mar_. It is our best banquet Sir. _Rog_. Shall we give thanks? _Wel_. I have to the Gentlewomen already Sir. _Mar_. Good Sir _Roger_, keep that breath to cool your part o'th' Posset, you may chance have a scalding zeal else; and you will needs be doing, pray tell your twenty to your self. Would you could like this Sir? _Wel_. I would your Sister would like me as well Lady. _Mar_. Sure Sir, she would not eat you: but banish that imagination; she's only wedded to her self, lyes with her self, and loves her self; and for another Husband than herself, he may knock at the gate, but ne're come in: be wise Sir, she's a Woman, and a trouble, and has her many faults, the least of which is, she cannot love you. _Abig_. God pardon her, she'l do worse, would I were worthy his least grief, Mistris _Martha_. _Wel_. Now I must over-hear her. _Mar_. Faith would thou hadst them all with all my heart; I do not think they would make thee a day older. _Abig_. Sir, will you put in deeper, 'tis the sweeter. _Mar_. Well said old sayings. _Wel_. She looks like one indeed. Gentlewoman you keep your word, your sweet self has made the bottom sweeter. _Abig_. Sir, I begin a frolick, dare you change Sir? _Wel_. My self for you, so please you. That smile has turn'd my stomach: this is right the old Embleme of the Moyle cropping of Thistles: Lord what a hunting head she carries, sure she has been ridden with a Martingale. Now love deliver me.