_Ven._ How must I blister my soul, be forsworn, Or shame the woman that received me first! I will be true: thou liv'st not to proclaim. Spoke to a dying man, shame has no shame. [_Aside._ My lord. _Lus._ Who's that? _Ven._ Here's none but I, my lord. _Lus._ What would thy haste utter? _Ven._ Comfort. _Lus._ Welcome. _Ven._ The maid being dull, having no mind to travel Into unknown lands, what did I straight, But set spurs to the mother? golden spurs Will put her to a false gallop in a trice. _Lus._ Is't possible that in this The mother should be damned before the daughter? _Ven._ O, that's good manners, my lord; the mother for her age must go foremost, you know. _Lus._ Thou'st spoke that true! but where comes in this comfort? _Ven._ In a fine place, my lord,--the unnatural mother Did with her tongue so hard beset her honour, That the poor fool was struck to silent wonder; Yet still the maid, like an unlighted taper, Was cold and chaste, save that her mother's breath Did blow fire on her cheeks. The girl departed; But the good ancient madam, half mad, threw me These promising words, which I took deeply note of: "My lord shall be most welcome"-- _Lus._ Faith, I thank her. _Ven._ "When his pleasure conducts him this way"-- _Lus._ That shall be soon, i' faith. _Ven._ "I will sway mine own"-- _Lus._ She does the wiser: I commend her for't. _Ven._ "Women with women can work best alone." _Lus._ By this light, and so they can; give 'em their due, men are not comparable to 'em. _Ven._ No, that's true; for you shall have one woman knit more in an hour, than any man can ravel again in seven-and-twenty years. _Lus._ Now my desires are happy; I'll make 'em freemen now. Thou art a precious fellow; faith, I love thee; Be wise and make it thy revenue; beg, beg; What office couldst thou be ambitious for? _Ven._ Office, my lord! marry, if I might have my wish, I would have one that was never begged yet. _Lus._ Nay, then, thou canst have none. _Ven._ Yes, my lord, I could pick out another office yet; nay, and keep a horse and drab upon't. _Lus._ Prythee, good bluntness, tell me. _Ven._ Why, I would desire but this, my lord--to have all the fees behind the arras, and all the farthingales that fall plump about twelve o'clock at night upon the rushes. _Lus._ Thou'rt a mad, apprehensive knave; dost think to make any great purchase of that? _Ven._ O, 'tis an unknown thing, my lord; I wonder't has been missed so long. _Lus._ Well, this night I'll visit her, and 'tis till then A year in my desires--farewell, attend: Trust me with thy preferment.