_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.

_Rog_. Do I dream, or do I wake? surely I know not: am I rub'd off? Is
this the way of all my morning Prayers? Oh _Roger_, thou art but grass,