ve. Over my
Doublet a _Soldado_ Cassacke of Scarlet, larded thicke with Gold Lace;
Hose of the same, cloake of the same, too, lasht up this high and richly
lined. There was a Lady, before I went, was working with her needle a
Scarffe for mee; but the Wagtaile has left her nest.

_Dam_. No matter; there's enough such birds everywhere.

_Hub_. Yes, women are as common as glasses in Tavernes, and often drunke
in and more often crackt. I shall grow lazy if I fight not; I would
faine play with halfe a dozen Fencers, but it should be at sharpe.[140]

_Dam_. And they are all for foyles.

_Hub_. Foyl'd let 'em be then.

_Dam_. You have had fencing enough in the field, and for women the
Christians fill'd[141] your markets.

_Hub_. Yes, and those markets were our Shambles. Flesh enough!
It made me weary of it. Since I came home
I have beene wondrous troubled in my sleepes,
And often heard to sigh in dead of night
As if my heart would cracke. You talk of Christians:
Ile tell you a strange thing, a kind of melting in
My soule, as 'twere before some heavenly fire,
When in their deaths (whom they themselves call Martyrs)
It was all rocky. Nothing, they say, can soften
A Diamond but Goates blood;[142] they perhaps were Lambs
In whose blood I was softened.

_Dam_. Pray tell how.

_Hub_. I will: after some three hours being in _Carthage_
I rusht into a Temple. Starr'd all with lights;
Which with my drawne sword rifling, in a roome
Hung full of Pictures, drawne so full of sweetnesse
They struck a reverence in me, found I a woman,
A Lady all in white; the very Candles
Took brightnesse from her eyes and those cleare Pearles
Which in aboundance falling on her cheekes
Gave them a lovely bravery. At my rough entrance
She shriek'd and kneel'd, and holding up a paire
Of Ivory fingers begg't that I would not
(Though I did kill) dishonour her, and told me
She would pray for me. Never did Christian
So near come to my heart-strings; I let my Sword
Fall from me, stood astonish't, and not onely
Sav'd her my selfe but guarded her from others.

_Dam_. Done like a Souldier.

_Hub_. Blood is not ever
The wholsom'st Wine to drinke. Doubtlesse these Christians
Serve some strange Master, and it needes must bee
A wonderfull sweete wages which he paies them;
And though men murmour, get they once here footing,
Then downe goes our Religion, downe our Altars,
And strange things be set up.--I cann