Come your ways.

MAR. Whither would you have me?

BOULT. I must have your maidenhead taken off, or the common hangman shall execute it. Come your [ways]. We'll have no more gentlemen driven away. Come your ways, I say.

 

Enter bawds [Bawd and Pander].

 

BAWD. How now, what's the matter?

BOULT. Worse and worse, mistress, she has here spoken holy words to the Lord Lysimachus.

BAWD. O abominable!

BOULT. [She] makes our profession as it were to stink afore the face of the gods.

BAWD. Marry, hang her up for ever!

BOULT. The nobleman would have dealt with her like a nobleman, and she sent him away as cold as a snowball, saying his prayers too.

BAWD. Boult, take her away, use her at thy pleasure. Crack the glass of her virginity, and make the rest malleable.

BOULT. And if she were a thornier piece of ground than she is, she shall be plough'd.

MAR. Hark, hark, you gods!

BAWD. She conjures, away with her! Would she had never come within my doors. Marry, hang you! She's born to undo us. Will you not go the way of womenkind? Marry, come up, my dish of chastity with rosemary and bays!

 

[Exeunt Bawd and Pander.]

 

BOULT. Come, mistress, come your [ways] with me.

MAR. Whither wilt thou have me?

BOULT. To take from you the jewel you hold so dear.

MAR. Prithee tell me one thing first.

BOULT. Come now, your one thing.

MAR. What canst thou wish thine enemy to be?

BOULT. Why, I could wish him to be my master, or rather, my mistress.

MAR.

Neither of these are so bad as thou art,

Since they do better thee in their command.

Thou hold'st a place for which the pained'st fiend

Of hell would not in reputation change.

Thou art the damned door-keeper to every

Custrel that comes inquiring for his Tib.

To the choleric fisting of every rogue

Thy ear is liable; thy food is such

As hath been belch'd on by infected lungs.

BOULT. What would you have me do? Go to the wars, would you? where a man may serve seven years for the loss of a leg, and have not money enough in the end to buy him a wooden one?

MAR.

Do any thing but this thou doest. Empty

Old receptacles, or common shores, of filth,

Serve by indenture to the common hangman:

Any of these ways are yet better than this;

For what thou professest, a baboon, could he speak,

Would own a name too dear. That the gods

Would safely deliver me from this place!

Here, here's gold for thee.

If that thy master would gain by me,

Proclaim that I can sing, weave, sew, and dance,

With other virtues, which I'll keep from boast,

And will undertake all these to teach.

I doubt not but this populous city will

Yield many scholars.

BOULT.

But can you teach all this you speak of?

MAR.

Prove that I cannot, take me home again

And prostitute me to the basest groom

That doth frequent your house.

BOULT. Well, I will see what I can do for thee.