Leave Nature to herself, good faith, her work
Is pretty equal;—but we will be garnishing;
Until the heart, like to a beauty's face,
Which she ne'er lets alone till she has spoil'd it,
Is so befritter'd round, with worldly nonsense,
That we can scarcely trace sweet Nature's outlines.
La Var. Who of our party, pr'ythee, since the battle
Have shelter'd here among the villagers?—
Canst tell their names?
Barton. Ay, marry, can I, sir.