Eust. Do, speak apace, for we believe exactly: do not we stay long, Mistress?
Ang. I find no fault, better things well done, than want time to do them. Uncle, why are you sad?
Mir. Sweet smelling blossom, would I were thine Uncle to thine own content, I'd make thy Husband's state a thousand better, a yearly thousand. Thou hast mist a man, (but that he is addicted to his study, and knows no other Mistress than his mind) would weigh down bundles of these empty kexes.
Ang. Can he speak, Sir?
Mir. Faith yes, but not to Women; his language is to Heaven, and heavenly wonder; to Nature, and her dark and secret causes.
Ang. And does he speak well there?
Mir. O admirably! but he's too bashful to behold a Woman, there's none that sees him, and he troubles none.
Ang. He is a man.
Mir. Faith yes, and a clear sweet spirit.
Ang. Then conversation me thinks—