Isab. Come, leave your frippery Jests, and come in.
Lor. Guilliam, be sure you attend me here, And whoever you see, say nothing; the best on’t is, Thou art not much known. Isab. and Lor. go in.
Guil. Well, I see there is nothing but [foutering] In this Town; wou’d our Lucia were here too for me, For all the Maids I meet with are so giglish And scornful, that a Man, as I am, Gets nothing but flouts and flings from them. Oh, for the little kind Lass that lives Under the Hill, of whom the Song was made; Which because I have nothing else to do, I will sing over now; hum, hum.
The Song for Guilliam. [To some Tune like him.]
In a Cottage by the Mountain
Lives a very pretty Maid,
Who lay sleeping by a Fountain,
Underneath a Myrtle shade;
Her Petticoat of wanton Sarcenet,
The amorous Wind about did move,