RENE. Really, my good lord,
My voice is out of joint. A grievous cold—
[Coughs.
PAOLO. A very grievous, but convenient cold,
Which always racks you when you would not sing.
RENE. O, no, my lord! Besides, I hoped to hear
My ditty warbled into fairer ears,
By your own lips; to better purpose, too.
[The NOBLEMEN all laugh.
FIRST NOBLEMAN. Rene has hit it. Music runs to waste
In ears like ours.
SECOND NOBLEMAN. Nay, nay; chaunt on, sweet Count.
PAOLO. [Coughing.] Alack! you hear, I've caught poor Rene's cough.
FIRST NOBLEMAN. That would not be, if we wore petticoats.
[The others laugh.