I know not how to please you better, Sir.
Will you from Oratour, turne Heretike,
And sinne against your owne Conscience?
Mis. Oh, Swash, Swash!
Cupid, the little Fencer playd his Prize,
At seuerall weapons in Atlanta’s eyes,
He challeng’d me, we met and both did try
His vtmost skill, to get the Victorie.
Lookes were oppos’d ’gainst lookes, and stead of words,
Were banded frowne ’gainst frowne, and words ’gainst words