_Wid._ What ward for that, wench?

_Isa._ Alas, it never touched me.

_Fran._ Well, gentle Lady, yours is the first money I ever took
upon a forced ill manners.

_Isa._ The last of me, if ever you use other.

_Fran._ How may I do, and your way to be thought a grateful taker?

_Isa._ Spend it, and say nothing, your modesty may deserve more.

_Wid._ O Sister will you bar thankfulness?

_Isa._ Dogs dance for meat, would ye have men do worse? for they
can speak, cry out like Wood-mongers, good deeds by the hundreds, I did
it that my best friend should not know it, wine and vain glory does as
much as I else, if you will force my merit, against my meaning, use it
in well bestowing it, in shewing it came to be a benefit, and was so;
and not examining a Woman did it, or to what end, in not believing
sometimes your self, when drink and stirring conversation may ripen
strange perswasions.

_Fran._ Gentle Lady, I were a base receiver of a courtesie, and you
a worse disposer, were my nature unfurnished of these fore-sights.
Ladies honours were ever in my thoughts, unspotted Crimes, their good
deeds holy Temples, where the incense burns not; to common eyes your
fears are vertuous, and so I shall preserve 'em.