'Tis scorn, I know it, and deserve it, Mr. _Roger_.
_Rog._ Fair Gentlewoman, my name is _Roger_.
_Abig_. Then gentle _Roger_?
_Rog_. Ungentle _Abigal_.
_Abig_. Why M'r _Roger_ will you set your wit to a weak womans?
_Rog_. You are weak indeed: for so the Poet sings.
_Abig_. I do confess my weakness, sweet Sir _Roger_.
_Rog_. Good my Ladies Gentlewoman, or my good Ladies Gentlewoman (this
trope is lost to you now) leave your prating, you have a season of your
first mother in ye: and surely had the Devil been in love, he had been
abused too: go _Dalilah_, you make men fools, and wear Fig-breeches.
_Abi_. Well, well, hard hearted man; dilate upon the weak infirmities of
women: these are fit texts, but once there was a time, would I had never
seen those eyes, those eyes, those orient eyes.
_Rog_. I they were pearls once with you.
_Abi_. Saving your reverence Sir, so they are still.
_Rog_. Nay, nay, I do beseech you leave your cogging, what they are, they
are, they serve me without Spectacles I thank 'em.
_Abig_. O will you kill me?
_Rog_. I do not think I can,
Y'are like a Copy-hold with nine lives in't.
_Abig_. You were wont to bear a Christian fear about you:
For your own worships sake.
_Rog_.
Pages:
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72