SCENE II.

_Enter_ Frank, _and_ Clora.

_Clo._ Do not dissemble _Frank_, mine eyes are quicker Than such observers, that do ground their faith Upon one smile or tear; y'are much alter'd, And are as empty of those excellencies That were companions to you; I mean mirth And free disposure of your blood and Spirit, As you were born a mourner.

_Fran._ How I prethee? For I perceive no such change in my self.

_Clo._ Come, come, this is not wise, nor provident To halt before a Cripple: if you love, Be liberal to your friend, and let her know it, I see the way you run, and know how tedious 'Twill prove without a true companion.

_Fran._ Sure thou wouldst have me love.

_Clo._ Yes marry would I, I should not please ye else.

_Fran._ And who for Heavens sake? For I assure my self, I know not yet: And prethee _Clora_, since thou'lt have it so That I must love, and do I know not what: Let him be held a pretty handsome fellow, And young, and if he be a little valiant 'Twill be the better; and a little wise, And faith a little honest.

_Clor._ Well I will sound ye yet for all your craft.

_Fran._ Heigh ho! I'le love no more.

_Clo._ Than one; and him You shall love _Frank_.

_Fran._ Which him? thou art so wise People will take thee shortly for a Witch: But prethee tell me _Clora_, if I were So mad as thou wouldst make me, what kind of man Wouldst thou imagine him?

_Clo._ Faith some pretty fellow, With a clean strength, that cracks a cudgel well And dances at a Wake, and plays at Nine-holes.

_Fran._ O what pretty commendations thou hast given him! Faith if I were in love as I thank Heaven I do not think I am; this short _Epistle_ Before my love would make me burn the _Legend_.

_Clor._ You are too wild, I mean some Gentleman.

_Fran._ So do not I, till I can know 'em wiser: Some Gentleman? no _Clora_, till some Gentleman Keep some land, and fewer whores, believe me I'le keep no love for him, I do not long To go a foot yet, and solicite causes.

_Clor._ What think you then of an adventurer? I mean some wealthy Merchant.

_Fran._ Let him venture In some decai'd Ware, or Carack of his own: he shall not Rig me out, that's the short on't; out upon't: What young thing of my years would endure To have her Husband in another Country Within a month after she is married Chopping for rotten Raisins, and lye pining At home under the mercy of his fore-man? no, Though they be wealthy, and indifferent wise I do not see that I am bound to love 'em.

_Clo._ I see ye are hard to please; yet I will please ye.

_Fran._ Faith not so hard neither, if considered What woman may deserve as she is worthy: But why do we bestow our time so idlely? Prethee let us entertain some other talk, This is as sickly to me as faint weather.

_Clor._ Now I believe I shall content you _Frank_, What think you of a Courtier?

_Fran._ Faith so ill, That if I should be full, and speak but truth, 'Twould shew as if I wanted charity, Prethee good wench let me not rail upon 'em, Yet I have an excellent stomach, and must do it; I have no mercy of these Infidels Since I am put in mind on't, good wench bear with me.

_Clo._ Can no man fit you? I will find him out.

_Fran._ This Summer fruit, that you call Courtier, While you continue cold and frosty to him Hangs fast, and may be found: but when you fling Too full a heat of your affections Upon his root, and make him ripe too soon, You'll find him rotten i'th' handling; His oaths and affections are all one With his apparel, things to set him off, He has as many Mistrisses as Faiths, And all _Apocrypha_; his true belief Is only in a private Surgion, And for my single self, I'd sooner venture A new conversion of the _Indies_, Than to make Courtiers able men, or honest.

_Clo._ I do believe you love no Courtier, And by my troth to ghess you into love With any I can think of, is beyond Either your will, or my imagination. And yet I am sure y'are caught: and I will know him. There's none left now worthy the thinking of, Unless it be a Souldier, and I am sure, I would ever bless my self from such a fellow.

_Fran._ Why prethee?

_Clo._ Out upon 'em fire-locks, They are nothing i'th' world but Buff and Scarlet, Tough unhewn pieces, to hack swords upon; I had as lieve be courted by a Cannon, As one of those.

_Fran._ Thou art too malicious, Upon my faith me thinks they're worthy men.

_Clo._ Say ye so? I'le pull ye on a little further. What worth can be in those men, whose profession Is nothing i'th' world but drink and damn me, Out of whose violence they are possest With legions of unwholsome whores and quarrels; I am of that opinion, and will dye in't, There is no understanding, nor can be In a soust Souldier.

_Fran._ Now 'tis ignorance I easily perceive that thus provokes thee, And not the love of truth; I'le lay my life If thou'dst been made a man, thou hadst been a coward.

_Clo._ If to be valiant, be to be a Souldier; I'le tell ye true, I had rather be a Coward, I am sure with less sin.

_Fra._ This Heresie must be look'd to in time: for if it spread 'Twill grow too Pestilent; were I a Scholar I would so hamper thee for thy opinion, That ere I left, I would write thee out of credit With all the world, and make thee not believ'd Even in indifferent things; that I would leave thee A reprobate out of the state of honour. By all good things, thou hast flung aspersions So like a fool (for I am angry with thee) Upon a sort of men, that let me tell thee Thy mothers mother would have been a Saint Had she conceiv'd a Souldier; they are people (I may commend 'em, while I speak but truth) Of all the old world, only left to keep Man as he was, valiant and vertuous. They are the model of those men, whose honours We heave our hands at when we hear recited.

_Clo._ They are, and I have all I sought for, 'tis a souldier You love, hide it no longer; you have betray'd your self; Come, I have found your way of commendations, And what I said, was but to pull it from ye.

_Fran._ 'Twas pretty, are you grown so cunning, _Clora_? I grant I love a souldier; But what souldier Will be a new task to ye? But all this I do imagine was but laid to draw me Out of my melancholy.

_Clo._ I will have the man Ere I forsake ye.

_Fran._ I must to my Chamber.

_Clo._ May not I go along?

_Fran._ Yes, but good wench Move me no more with these fond questions, They work like Rhubarb with me.

_Clo._ Well, I will not. [_Exeunt._