Fr. Speak softly, gentle Lady, all's rewarded,
Now does he melt like Marmalad.
John. Nay, 'tis certain,
Thou art the sweetest woman I e're look'd on:
I hope thou art not honest.
Fred. None disturb'd ye?
Const. Not any Sir, nor any sound came near me,
I thank your care.
Fred. 'Tis well.
John. I would fain pray now,
But the Devil and that flesh there, o' the world,
What are we made to suffer?
Fred. He'll enter;
Pull in your head and be hang'd.
John. Hark ye Frederick,
I have brought ye home your Pack-saddle.
Fred. Pox upon ye.
Con. Nay let him enter: fie my Lord the Duke,
Stand peeping at your friends.