Evan. Is this the business?
Sor. Yes, and the best you ever will arrive at if you be wise.
Evan. My Father was no bawd, Sir,
Nor of that worshipful stock as I remember.
Sor. [You] are a Fool.
Evan, You are that I shame to tell ye.
Fred. Gentle Evanthe.
Evan. The gracious Queen, Sir,
Is well and merry, Heaven be thanked for it,
And as I think she waits you in the Garden.
Fre. Let her wait there, I talk not of her Garden,
I talk of thee sweet Flower.
Evan. Your Grace is pleasant,
To mistake a Nettle for a Rose.
Fre. No Rose, nor Lilly, nor no glorious Hyacinth
Are of that sweetness, whiteness, tenderness,
Softness, and satisfying blessedness
As my Evanthe.