Serv. Sir, here's Sir Gregory.
Cun. U'd so, shelter, shelter, if you be seen,
All's ravell'd out again; stand there private,
And you'll find the very opportunity
To call you forth, and place you at the Table.
Enter Sir Gregory.
You are welcome, Sir, this Banquet will serve,
When it is crown'd with such a dainty as you
Expect, and must have.
Sir Greg. 'Tush, these sweet-meats are but sauce to that,
Well, if there be any honesty, or true word in a dream,
She's mine own, nay, and chang'd extreamly,
Not the same Woman.
Cun. Who, not the Lady?
Sir Greg. No, not to me, the edge of her tongue is taken off,
Gives me very good words, turn'd up-side-down to me,
And we live as quietly as two Tortoises, if she hold on,
As she began in my dream. [Soft Musick.
Cun. Nay, if Love send forth such Predictions,
You are bound to believe 'em, there's the watch-word
Of her coming; to your practis'd part now,
If you hit it, Æquus Cupido nobis. [Both go into the Gown.
Sir Greg. I will warrant you, Sir, I will give armes to
Your Gentry, look you forward to your business,
I am an eye behind you, place her in that Chair,
And let me alone to grope her out.
Enter Mirabell.