ir language, and yet stand
undiscovered, be not melancholy, you are as fair as she.

_Isab._ Who I? I thank you, I am as haste ordain'd me, a thing
slubber'd, my sister is a goodly portly Lady, a woman of a presence, she
spreads sattens, as the Kings ships do canvas every where, she may spare
me her misen, and her bonnets, strike her main Petticoat, and yet
outsail me, I am a Carvel to her.

_Luce._ But a tight one.

_Isab._ She is excellent, well built too.

_Luce._ And yet she's old.

_Isab._ She never saw above one voyage _Luce_, and credit me
after another, her Hull will serve again, a right good Merchant: she
plaies, and sings too, dances and discourses, comes very near Essays, a
pretty Poet, begins to piddle with Philosophic, a subtil Chymick Wench,
and can extract the Spirit of mens Estates, she has the light before
her, and cannot miss her choice for me, 'tis reason I wait my mean
fortune.

_Luce._ You are so bashfull.

_Isab._ It is not at first word up and ride, thou art cozen'd,
that would shew mad i' faith: besides, we lose the main part of our
politick government: if we become provokers, then we are fair, and fit
for mens imbraces, when like towns, they lie before us ages, yet not
carried, hold out their strongest batteries, then compound too without
the loss of honour, and march off with our fair wedding, Colours flying.
Who are these?

_Enter_ Franc, _and_ Lance.

_Luce._ I know not, nor I care not.

_Isab._ Prethee peace then, a well built Gentleman.

_Luce._ But poorly thatcht.

_Lance._ Has he devour'd you too?

_Fran._ H'as gulp'd me down _Lance_.

_Lance._ Left you no means to study?

_Fran._ Not a farthing: dispatcht my poor annuity I thank him,
here's all the hope I have left, one bare ten shillings.

_Lan._ You are fit for great mens services.

_Fran._ I am fit, but who'le take me thus? mens miseries are now
accounted stains in their natures. I have travelled, and I have studied
long, observed all Kingdoms, know all the promises of Art and manners,
yet that I am not bold, nor cannot flatter, I shall not thrive, all
these are but vain Studies, art thou so rich as to get me a lodging
_Lance_?

_Lan._ I'le sell the titles of my house else, my Horse, my Hawk,
nay's death I'le pawn my wife: Oh Mr. _Francis_, that I should see
your Fathers house fall thus!

_Isab._ An honest fellow.

_Lan._ Your Fathers house, that fed me, that bred up all my name!

_Isab._ A gratefull fell