_Clod_. That anon _Arnoldo_,
This is but talk.

_Rut_. Shall we goe off?

_Arn_. By any means,
I know she has pious thoughts enough to guard her:
Besides, here's nothing due to him till the tye be done,
Nor dare he offer.

_Rut_. Now do I long to worry him:
Pray have a care to the main chance.

_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