Pha. If there be two such more in this Kingdom, and near the Court, we may even hang up our Harps: ten such Camphire constitutions as this, would call the golden age again in question, and teach the old way for every ill fac't Husband to get his own Children, and what a mischief that will breed, let all consider.
[ Enter Megra.
Here's another; if she be of the same last, the Devil
shall pluck her on. Many fair mornings, Lady.
Meg. As many mornings bring as many dayes,
Fair, sweet, and hopeful to your Grace.
Pha. She gives good words yet; Sure this wench is free.
If your more serious business do not call you,
Let me hold quarter with you, we'll take an hour
Out quickly.
Meg. What would your Grace talk of?
Pha. Of some such pretty subject as your self.
I'le go no further than your eye, or lip,
There's theme enough for one man for an age.
Meg. Sir, they stand right, and my lips are yet even,
Smooth, young enough, ripe enough, red enough,
Or my glass wrongs me.
Pha. O they are two twin'd Cherries died in blushes,
Which those fair suns above, with their bright beams
Reflect upon, and ripen: sweetest beauty,
Bow down those branches, that the longing taste,
Of the faint looker on, may meet those blessings,
And taste and live.
Meg. O delicate sweet Prince;
She that hath snow enough about her heart,
To take the wanton spring of ten such lines off,
May be a Nun without probation.
Sir, you have in such neat poetry, gathered a kiss,
That if I had but five lines of that number,
Such pretty begging blanks, I should commend
Your fore-head, or your cheeks, and kiss you too.