You'll lose your life, and I shall lose my place,
My mistress all, for that half-girlish face.
CLXXII.
"Had it but been for a stout cavalier[79]
Of twenty-five or thirty—(come, make haste)
But for a child, what piece of work is here!
I really, madam, wonder at your taste—
(Come, sir, get in)—my master must be near:
There, for the present, at the least, he's fast,
And if we can but till the morning keep