as I live.

_Fran._ How her face alters on me!

_Luce._ Out of a confidence I hope.

_Isab._ I am glad on't.

_Fran._ How do you gentle Lady?

_Isab._ Much ashamed Sir, (but first stand further off me, y'are
infectious) to find such vanitie, nay almost impudence, where I believ'd
a worth: is this your thanks, the gratitude you were so mad to make me,
your trim counsel Gentlemen?

_Lane._ What, Lady?

_Isab._ Take your device again, it will not serve Sir, the woman
will not bite, you are finely cozened, drop it no more for shame.

_Luce._ Do you think you are here Sir amongst your wast-coateers,
your base wenches that scratch at such occasions? you are deluded: This
is a Gentlewoman of a noble house, born to a better fame than you can
build her, and eyes above your pitch.

_Fran._ I do acknowledge--

_Isab._ Then I beseech you Sir, what could 'see, (speak boldly, and
speak truly, shame the Devil,) in my behaviour of such easiness that you
durst venture to do this?