age villain!
My Innocence be my strength, I do defie thee,
Thus scorn and spit at thee; will you come on Sir?
You are hot, there is a cooler.

_2 Gent._ A virago?

_Ana._ No, loathsome Goat, more, more, I am that Goddess,
That here with whips of steel in hell hereafter
Scourge rape and theft.

_2 Gent._ I'le try your deity.

_Ana._ My chastity, and this knife held by a Virgin,
Against thy lust, thy sword and thee a Beast,
Call on for the encounter.

_2 Gent._ Now what think you? [_Throws her and taks her Knife._
Are you a Goddess?

_Ana._ In me their power suffers,
That should protect the Innocent.

_1 Gent._ I am all fire,
And thou shall quench it, and serve my pleasures.
Come partner in the spoil and the reward,
Let us enjoy our purchase.

_Lam._ O _Dinant_!
O Heaven! O Husband!

_Ana._ O my _Cleremont_!

_1 Gent._ Two are our slaves they call on, bring 'em forth
As they are chain'd together, let them see
And suffer in the object.

_Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont, _bound by the rest of the
Gent_.

_2 Gent._ While we sit
And without pity hear 'em.

_Cler._ By my life,
I suffer more for thee than for my self.

_Din._ Be a man _Cleremont_, and look upon 'em
As such that not alone abus'd our service,
Fed us with hopes most bitter in digestion,
But when love fail'd, to draw on further mischief,
The baits they laid for us, were our own honours,
Which thus hath made us slaves too, worse than slaves.

_2 Gent._ He dies.

_1 Gent._ Pray hold, give him a little respite.

_Din._ I see you now beyond expression wretched,
The wit you brag'd of fool'd, that boasted honour,
As you believ'd compass'd with walls of brass,
To guard it sure, subject to be o'rethrown
With the least blast of lust.

_Lam._ A most sad truth.

_Din._ That confidence which was not to be shaken
In a perpetual fever, and those favours,
Which with so strong and Ceremonious duty
Your lover and a Gentleman long sought for,
Sought, sued, and kneel'd in vain for, must you yield up
To a licentious villain, that will hardly
Allow you thanks for't.

_Cler._ Something I must say too,
And to you pretty one, though crying one;
To be hang'd now, when these worshipful benchers please,
Though I know not their faces that condemn me,
A little startles me, but a man is nothing,
A Maidenhead is the thing, the thing all aim at;
Do not you wish now, and wish from your heart too,
When scarce sweet with my fears, I long lay by