The Scornful Lady
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.
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
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.
Abig. The tenderness of his years keeps him as yet in ignorance, he's a well moulded
fellow, and I wonder his bloud should stir no higher; but 'tis his want of company: I must
grow nearer to him.
Enter Elder Loveless disguised.
Elder Lo. God save you both.
Abig. And pardon you Sir; this is somewhat rude, how came you hither?
Elder Lo. Why through the doors, they are open.
Wel. What are you? And what business have you here?