_Rut._ That's too much o' Conscience,
To love all these would run me out o' my wits.
_Arn._ Prethee give ear, I am to Marry her.
_Rut._ Dispatch it then, and I'le go call the Piper.
_Arn._ But O the wicked Custom of this Country,
The barbarous, most inhumane, damned Custom.
_Rut_. 'Tis true, to marry is a Custom
I' the world; for look you Brother,
Wou'd any man stand plucking for the Ace of Harts,
With one pack of Cards all dayes on's life?
_Arn._ You do not
Or else you purpose not to understand me.
_Rut._ Proceed, I will give ear.
_Arn._ They have a Custom
In this most beastly Country, out upon't.
_Rut._ Let's hear it first.
_Arn._ That when a Maid is contracted
And ready for the tye o'th' Church, the Governour,
He that commands in chief, must have her Maiden-head,
Or Ransom it for mony at his pleasure.
_Rut._ How might a man atchieve that place? a rare Custom!
An admirable rare Custom: and none excepted?
_Arn._ None, none.
_Rut._ The rarer still: how could I lay about me,
In this rare Office? are they born to it, or chosen?
_Arn._ Both equal damnable.
_Rut._ Me thinks both excellent,
Would I were the next heir.
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