st_, 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.

_Rog_. Do I dream, or do I wake? sur