Host. Signior, you are exceeding mov'd.
Hostess. Mercy upon us, What terrible words thou talk'st?
Foro. A slave, a curr—but be not you afrighted
Young Virgin, 'twere an injury to sweetness:
Should any rough sound draw from your cheeks,
The pretious tincture which makes nature proud
Of her own workmanship.
Host. Wife, Mark, mark that Wife.
Bian. Shake then your anger off Sir.
Foro. You command it
Fair one, mine Host and Hostess, with your leaves
I have a motion joyntly to you all.
Hostess. An honest one I hope.
Host. Well put in Wife.
Foro. A very necessary one, the Mes
And half of suitors, that attend to usher
Their Loves sir-reverence to your daughter, wait
With one consent, which can best please her eye;
In offering at a Dance, I have provided
Musick. And, 'twill be something I dare promise
Worthy your laughter, Shall they have admittance?
Host. By any means, for I am perswaded the manner will be so
Ridiculous, that it will confirm the assurance of their
Miserable fooleries, but no longer trouble with 'em here,
Than they are in these May-games.