Clow. I was ne'er so cold in my life, in my Conscience I have been seven mile in length, along the New River; I have seen a hundred stickle bags; I do not think but there's gudgeons too; 'twill ne'er be a true water.
Cun. Why think you so?
Clow. I warrant you, I told a thousand Millers thumbs in it, I'll make a little bold with your Sweet-meats.
Cun. And welcome Pompey.
Clow. 'Tis a strange thing, I have no taste in any thing.
Cun. Oh, that's Love, that distasts any thing but it self.
Clow. 'Tis worse than Cheese in that point, may not a Man break his word with a Lady? I could find in my heart and my hose too.
Cun. By no means, Sir, that breaks all the Laws of Love.
Clow. Well, I'll ne'er pass my word without my deed to
A Lady, while I live agen, I would fain recover my taste.
Cun. Well, I have news to tell you.