_Rog._ And talks and laughs, and sings the rarest songs, and _Shorthose_, he has so maul'd the Red Deer pies, made such an alms i'th' butterie. _Short._ Better still. _Enter_ Val. Widow. _Hum._ My Lady in a rage with the Gentleman? _Short._ May he anger her into a feather. [_Exeunt._ _Wid._ I pray tell me, who sent you hither? for I imagine it is not your condition, you look so temperately, and like a Gentleman, to ask me these milde questions. _Val._ Do you think I use to walk of errands, gentle Lady, or deal with women out of dreams from others? _Wid._ You have not know[n] me sure? _Val._ Not much. _Wid._ What reason have you then to be so tender of my credit, you are no kinsman? _Val._ If you take it so, the honest office that I came to do you, is not so heavy but I can return it: now I perceive you are too proud, not worth my visit. _Wid._ Pray stay, a little proud. _Val._ Monstrous proud, I griev'd to hear a woman of your value, and your abundant parts stung by the people, but now I see 'tis true, you look upon me as if I were a rude and saucie fellow that borrowed all my breeding from a dunghil, or such a one, as should now fall and worship you in hope of pardon: you are cozen'd Lady, I came to prove opinion a loud liar, to see a woman only great in goodness, and Mistress of a greater fame than fortune, but-- _Wid._ You are a strange Gentleman, if I were proud now, I should be monstrous angry, which I am not, and shew the effects of pride; I should despise you, but you are welcom Sir: To think well of our selves, if we deserve it, it is a lustre in us, and every good we have, strives to shew gracious, what use is it else? old age like Seer-trees, is seldom seen affected, stirs sometimes at rehearsal of such acts as his daring youth endeavour'd. _Val._ This is well, and now you speak to the purpose, you please me, but to be place proud? _Wid._ If it be our own, why are we set here with distinction else, degrees, and orders given us? In you men, 'tis held a coolness, if you lose your right, affronts and loss of honour: streets, and walls, and upper ends of tables, had they tongues could tell what blood has followed, and what feud about your ranks; are we so much below you, that till you have us, are the tops of nature, to be accounted drones without a difference? you will make us beasts indeed. _Val._ Nay worse than this too, proud of your cloaths, they swear a Mercers Lucifer, a tumour tackt together by a Taylour, nay yet worse, proud of red and white, a varnish that butter-milk can better. _Wid._ Lord, how little will vex these poor blind people! if my cloaths be sometimes gay and glorious, does it follow, my mind must be my Mercers too? or say my beauty please some weak eyes, must it please them to think, that blows me up, that every hour blows off? this is an Infants anger.