_Zen_. Pray Sir, fear not. [_Exit_ Ar. _and_ Rut.
_Clod_. Now, what say you to me?
_Zen_. Sir it becomes
The modestie, that maids are ever born with,
To use few words.
_Clod_. Do you see nothing in me?
Nothing to catch your eyes, nothing of wonder
The common mould of men, come short, and want in?
Do you read no future fortune for your self here?
And what a happiness it may be to you,
To have him honour you, all women aim at?
To have him love you Lady, that man love you,
The best, and the most beauteous have run mad for?
Look and be wise, you have a favour offer'd you
I do not every day propound to women;
You are a prettie one; and though each hour
I am glutted with the sacrifice of beautie,
I may be brought, as you may handle it,
To cast so good a grace and liking on you.
You understand, come kiss me, and be joyfull,
I give you leave.
_Zen_. Faith Sir, 'twill not shew handsome;
Our sex is blushing, full of fear, unskil'd too
In these alarms.
_Clod_. Learn then and be perfect.
_Zen_. I do beseech your honour pardon me,
And take some skilfull one can hold you play,
I am a fool.
_Clod_. I tell thee maid I love thee,
Let that word make thee happie, so far love thee,
That though I may enjoy thee without ceremony,
I will descend so low, to marry thee,
Me thinks I see the race that shall spring from us,
Some Princes, some great Souldiers.
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