Charl. I do most dangerously suspect this boy to be a wench; art thou not one? come hither, let me feel thee.
Ver. With all my heart.
Charl. Why dost thou pull off thy Glove?
Ver. Why, to feel whether you be a boy, or no.
Charl. Fie boy, go too. I'll not look your head, nor comb your locks any more, if you talk thus.
Ver. Why, I'll sing to you no more then.
Charl. Fie upon't, how sad you are! a young Gentleman that was the very Sun of France.
Mont. But I am in the eclipse now.
Cha[r]l. Suffer himself to be over-run with a Lethargy of melancholy and discontent! rouze up thy spirit, man, and shake it off:
A Noble Soul is like a Ship at Sea,
That sleeps at Anchor when the Ocean's calm;
But when she rages, and the wind blows high,
He cuts his way with skill and Majesty.
I would turn a Fool, or Poet, or any thing, or marry, to
make you merry; prethee let's walk: good Veramour, leave
thy Master and me, I have earnest business with him.