Trice. No: 'tis sometimes upon yours: But, what say'st thou to sir Timorous, little Constance?
Const. Would you have me married to that king Midas's face?
Trice. Midas me no Midas; he's a wit; he understands eating and drinking well: Poeta coquus, the heathen philosopher could tell you that.
Const. Come on, sir: what's your will with me? [Laughs.
Tim. Why, madam, I could only wish we were a little better acquainted, that we might not laugh at one another so.
Const. If the fool puts forward, I am undone.
Tim. Fool!—do you know me, madam?
Const. You may see I know you, because I call you by your name.
Fail. You must endure these rebukes with patience, Sir Timorous.
Const. What, are you planet struck? Look you, my lord, the gentleman's tongue-tied.