_Cou_. Why then in prose, the worst that I can speake in, I doe not love you, Lady.
_Sis_. How? you ha not Traind me thus farr to tell me that?
_Cou_. You are Of all your sex the poorest emptiest trifle, And one with whome tis most impossible I ere should change Affection; theres nothing To invite me too't, not so much as that Wee call a seeming reason, upon which All Love is built, seeming, I say, not it, My understanding Ladie.
_Sis_. You thinke I am very dull that you expound Your witt thus, but it needes no Comentator, Not by the Author, tis so very plaine; But to despise me most of all the sexe Is something oversaid. Though I affect No flattery, I hate uncivill Language. You do not meane to quarrell, now you have Betraid me to the feilds, and beat me, Sir?
_Cou_. What is there in your face more to attract mee Then that Red Cowes complexion? Why the Divell Do you thinke I should dote upon your person? That thing when she is stroak'd gives milke.
_Sis_. By that I understand all this revenge, because You thinke I did neglect you. Pray, sir, tell me, And tell me seriouslie, put the Case that I Should love you now, could not you love agen?
_Cou_. Nay, ile bind it with an oath before the parish, And when I have given my reasons, too, the Clarke Shall praise me fort and say Amen.
_Cou_. I shall be very loath To say your eyes are twinckling Starres agen, Your lipps twin cherries and out blush the rubie, Your azure veines vye beauty with the Saphire Or that your swelling breasts are hills of Ivory, Pillowes for Jove to rest his amorous head, When my owne Conscience tells me that _Bunhill_ Is worth a hundred on 'em, and but _Higate_ Compar'd with 'em is Paradice. I thanke you; Ile not be vext and squeez'd about a rime Or in a verse that's blanke, as I must be, Whine love unto[268] a tune.
_Cou_. No, I doe feare to loose my tyme, my businesse, And my witts too, jolting them all away To waite on you in prouder Coaches.
_Cou_. To spend my selfe to nothing and be laugh'd at By all the world when I shall come at last To this reward for all my services, To bee your lay Court Chaplaine and say gravely A hastie grace before your windowes breakfast.
_Sis_. But how Came you thus cur'd? You were a passionate (I may say) foole, in hope you will deserve it. What phisick tooke you that hath thus restor'd you?