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7

SCENE V.

Betty.
To marry master are you bent,
You first shall stay for my consent:
I have not taken all this pains,
To let another count my gains:
But, how to frustrate the old fool!
I'll make this bumpkin here my tool,
Pretend with him to drive a match;
My master will, like wild-fire, catch
The tidings, and be strait in flame;
And then leave me to play my game.
Men are wily, men are cunning,
Still in wait our sex to catch;
But, their subtle mazes running,
Now and then they meet their match.
Shame, dear girls, those vile undoers',
Schemes with deeper schemes o'er-reach;
Boldly turn on your pursuers,
And foil them with the arts they teach.