Lil. Indeed you are mistaken;
It will be very merry.
Ros. Why, Sir, do you think
There are no more men living, nor no handsomer
Than he, or you, By this light there be ten thousand?
Ten thousand thousand: comfort your self, dear Monsieur,
Faces, and bodies, Wits, and all Abiliments
There are so many we regard 'em not.
Enter Belleur, and two Gentlemen.
Mir. That such a noble Lady, I could burst now,
So far above such trifles?
Bel. You did laugh at me,
And I know why ye laughed.
1 Gent. I pray ye be satisfied;
If we did laugh, we had some private reason,
And not at you.
2 Gent. Alas, we know you not, Sir.
Bel. I'le make you know me; set your faces soberly;
Stand this way, and look sad; I'le be no May-game;
Sadder; demurer yet.
Ros. What's the matter?
What ails this Gentleman?
Bel. Go off now backward, that I may behold ye;
And not a simper on your lives.