_Luce._ I know the cause of all this sadness now, your sister has
ingrost all the brave Lovers.

_Isab._ She has wherewithall, much good may't do her, prethee speak
softly, we are open to mens ears.

_Luce._ Fear not, we are safe, we may see all that pass, hear all,
and make our selves merry with their language, and yet stand
undiscovered, be not melancholy, you are as fair as she.

_Isab._ Who I? I thank you, I am as haste ordain'd me, a thing
slubber'd, my sister is a goodly portly Lady, a woman of a presence, she
spreads sattens, as the Kings ships do canvas every where, she may spare
me her misen, and her bonnets, strike her main Petticoat, and yet
outsail me, I am a Carvel to her.

_Luce._ But a tight one.

_Isab._ She is excellent, well built too.

_Luce._ And yet she's old.

_Isab._ She never saw above one voyage _Luce_, and credit me
after another, her Hull will serve again, a right good Merchant: she
plaies, and sings too, dances and discourses, comes very near Essays, a
pretty Poet, begins to piddle with Philosophic, a subtil Chymick Wench,
and can extract the Spirit of mens Estates, she has the light before
her, and cannot miss her choice for me, 'tis reason I wait my mean
fortune.