_Luce._ No, Mistress.

_Isab._ Thou shouldest ever know such good men, what a fair body
and mind are married! did he not say he wanted?

_Luce._ What's that to you?

_Isab._ 'Tis true, but 'tis great pity.

_Luce._ How she changes! ten thousand more than he, as handsom men too.

_Isab._ 'Tis like enough, but as I live, this Gentleman among ten
thousand thousand! is there no knowing him? why should he want? fellows
of no merit, slight and puft souls, that walk like shadows, by leaving
no print of what they are, or poise, let them complain.

_Luce._ Her colour changes strangely.

_Isab._ This man was made, to mark his wants to waken us; alas poor
Gentleman, but will that keep him from cold and hunger, believe me he is
well bred, and cannot be but of a noble linage, mark him, mark him well.

_Luce._ 'Is a handsom man.

_Isab._ The sweetness of his sufferance sets him off, O _Luce_, but
whither go I?

_Luce._ You cannot hide it.

_Isab._ I would he had what I can spare.