Enter Benvoglio, Angelina, Ferdinand.
Ben. My Angelina, never didst thou yet
So please me, as in this consent; and yet
Thou hast pleas'd me well, I swear, old wench: ha, ha.
Ferdinand, she's thine own; thou'st have her, boy,
Ask thy good Lady else.
Ferd. Whom shall I have, Sir?
Ben. Whom d' ye think, ifaith?
Angel. Ghess.
Ferd. Noble Madam,
I may hope (prompted by shallow merit)
Through your profound grace, for your chamber-maid.
Ben. How 's that? how 's that?
[Ferd. Her chamber-maid, my Lord.
Ben.] Her chamber-pot, my Lord. You modest ass,
Thou never shew'dst thy self an ass till now.
'Fore Heaven I am angrie with thee. Sirha, sirha,
This whitmeat spirit's not yours, legitimate,
Advance your hope, and 't please you: ghess again.
Ang. And let your thoughts flee higher: aim them right;
Sir, you may hit, you have the fairest white.