But cunning Cupid forecast me to recoile:
For when he plaid at sharpe, I had the foyle.
Swash. Nay, now he is in loue, I see it plaine:
I was inspir’d with this Poeticall vaine,
When I fell first in loue: God bo’y yee, Sir:
I must goe looke another Master.
Mis. Swash.
Swash. Y’are a dead man: beleeue it, Sir,
I would not giue two-pence for a Lease
Of a hundred pound a yeere made for your life.