porcupine, shee casts pricks from her tongue so.

_Mont._ And here's a peacock seemes to have devour'd one of the Alpes, she has so swelling a spirit, & is so cold of her kindnes.

_Char._ We are no windfalls, my lord; ye must gather us with the ladder of matrimony, or we'l hang till we be rotten. 

_Mons._ Indeed, that's the way to make ye right openarses. But, alas, ye have no portions fit for such husbands as we wish you.

_Per._ Portions, my lord! yes, and such portions as your principality cannot purchase.

_Mons._ What, woman, what are those portions?

_Per._ Riddle my riddle, my lord.

_Mons._ I, marry, wench, I think thy portion is a right riddle; a man shall never finde it out: but let's heare it.

_Per._ You shall, my lord. What's that, that being most rar's most cheap? That when you sow, you never reap? That when it growes most, most you [th]in it, And still you lose it, when you win it? That when tis commonest, tis dearest, And when tis farthest off, 'tis neerest?

_Mons._ Is this your great portion?

_Per._ Even this, my lord.

_Mons._ Beleeve me, I cannot riddle it.

_Per._ No, my lord; tis my chastity, which you shall neither riddle nor fiddle.

_Mons._ Your chastity! Let me begin with the end of it; how is a womans chastity neerest man, when tis furthest off?

_Per._ Why, my lord, when you cannot get it, it goes to th'heart on you; and that I think comes most neere you: and I am sure it shall be farre enough off. And so wee leave you to our mercies.  _Exeunt Women._

_Mons._ Farewell, riddle.

_Gui._ Farewell, medlar.

_Mont._ Farewell, winter plum.

_Mons._ Now, my lords, what fruit of our inquisition? feele you nothing budding yet? Speak, good my lord Montsurry.

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