Neece. What an ambiguous Superscription's here!
To the best of Neeces. Why that title may be mine,
And more than her's:
Sure I much wrong the neatness of his art;
'Tis certain sent to me, and to requite
My cunning in the carriage of my Tokens,
Us'd the same Fop for his.
Sir Greg. She nodded now to me, 'twill come in time.
Neece. What's here? an entire Rubye, cut into a heart,
And this the word, Istud Amoris opus?
Sir Greg. Yes, yes, I have heard him say, that love is the best stone-cutter.
Neece. Why thou sawcy issue of some travelling Sow-gelder,
What makes love in thy mouth? Is it a thing
That ever will concern thee? I do wonder
How thou dar'st think on't! hast thou ever hope
To come i' the same roome where lovers are;
And scape unbrain'd with one of their velvet slippers?
Sir Greg. Love tricks break out I see, and you talk of slippers once,
'Tis not far off to bed time.
Neece. Is it possible thou canst laugh yet?
I would ha' undertook to ha' kill'd a spider
With less venome far, than I have spit at thee.
Sir Greg. You must conceive,
A Knight's another manner a piece of flesh.
Neece. Back, Owles-face.
Within. O. K. Do, do.