I am not proud, nor full of Wine,
This little Flower will make me fine;
Cruel in Heart, for I will cry,
If I see a Sparrow dye;
I am not watchful to do ill,
Nor glorious to pursue it still;
Nor pitiless to those that weep;
Such as are, bid them go sleep.
Do, do, do, and see if they can.
Rod. It said true.
I feel it sink into me forcibly:
Sure 'tis a kind of Sibyl, some mad Prophet;
I feel my wildness bound, and fetter'd in me.
Alin. Give me your hand, and I'll tell you what's your fortune.
Rod. Here, prithee speak.
Alin. Fye, fye, fye, fye, fye.
Wash your hands, and pare your nails, and look finely,
You shall never kiss the Kings Daughter else.
Rod. I wash 'em daily.
Alin. But still you foul 'em faster.
Rod. This goes nearer.
Alin. You'll have two Wives.