Theo. Wondrous well Sir
And all she do's becomes her, even her anger.
Phil. How seemed she when you found her?
Theo. Had you seen
How sweetly fearful her pretty self
Betray'd her self, how neat her sorrow show'd,
And in what handsome phrase she put her story,
And as occasion stirr'd her how she started
Though roughly, yet most aptly into anger
You would have wonder'd.
Phil. Do's she know ye?
Theo. No,
Nor must not by no means.
Phil. How stands your difference?
Theo. I'll tell ye that some fitter time, but trust me
My Mark-antonio has too much to answer.
Phil. May I take knowledge of her?
Theo. Yes she is willing.
Phil. Pray use her as she is, with all respects then,
For she is a woman of a noble breeding.