Six thousand pound, and then the Land is mine, there's some refreshing
yet. [_Exit._
_Actus Tertius. Scena Prima_.
_Enter_ Abigal, _and drops her Glove._
_Abigal_. If he but follow me, as all my hopes tell me, he's man enough,
up goes my rest, and I know I shall draw him.
_Enter_ Welford.
_Wel_. This is the strangest pampered piece of flesh towards fifty, that
ever frailty copt withal, what a trim _lennoy_ here she has put upon me;
these women are a proud kind of Cattel, and love this whorson doing so
directly, that they will not stick to make their very skins Bawdes to
their flesh. Here's Dogskin and Storax sufficient to kill a Hawk: what to
do with it, besides nailing it up amongst _Irish_ heads of Teere, to shew
the mightiness of her Palm, I know not: there she is. I must enter into
Dialogue. Lady you have lost your Glove.
_Abig_. Not Sir, if you have found it.
_Wel_. It was my meaning Lady to restore it.
_Abig_. 'Twill be uncivil in me to take back a favour, Fortune hath so
well bestowed Sir, pray wear it for me.
_Wel_. I had rather wear a Bell. But hark you Mistres, what hidden vertue
is there in this Glove, that you would have me wear it? Is't good against
sore eyes, or will it charm the Toothach? Or these red tops; being steept
in white wine soluble, wil't kill the Itch? Or has it so conceal'd a
providence to keep my hand from Bonds? If it have none of these and prove
no more but a bare Glove of half a Crown a pair, 'twill be but half a
courtesie, I wear two alwayes, faith let's draw cuts, one will do me no
pleasure.
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