_Luce._ You are so bashfull.

_Isab._ It is not at first word up and ride, thou art cozen'd,
that would shew mad i' faith: besides, we lose the main part of our
politick government: if we become provokers, then we are fair, and fit
for mens imbraces, when like towns, they lie before us ages, yet not
carried, hold out their strongest batteries, then compound too without
the loss of honour, and march off with our fair wedding, Colours flying.
Who are these?

_Enter_ Franc, _and_ Lance.

_Luce._ I know not, nor I care not.

_Isab._ Prethee peace then, a well built Gentleman.

_Luce._ But poorly thatcht.

_Lance._ Has he devour'd you too?

_Fran._ H'as gulp'd me down _Lance_.

_Lance._ Left you no means to study?

_Fran._ Not a farthing: dispatcht my poor annuity I thank him,
here's all the hope I have left, one bare ten shillings.

_Lan._ You are fit for great mens services.