Cel. Away, away, thou art some foolish fellow,
And now I think thou hast stole 'em too: the King sent 'em?
Alas good man, wouldst thou make me believe
He has nothing to do with things of these worths,
But wantonly to fling 'em? he's an old man,
A good old man, they say too: I dare swear
Full many a year ago he left these gambols:
Here, take your trinkets.
Ant. Sure I do not lye, Lady.
Cel. I know thou lyest extreamly, damnably: Thou hast a lying face.
Ant. I was never thus ratled.
Cel. But say I should believe: why are these sent me? And why art thou the Messenger? who art thou?
Ant. Lady, look on 'em wisely, and then consider
Who can send such as these, but a King only?
And, to what beauty can they be oblations,
But only yours? For me that am the carrier,
'Tis only fit you know I am his servant,
And have fulfil'd his will.
Cel. You are short and pithy; What must my beauty do for these?
_Ant. _Sweet Lady,
You cannot be so hard of understanding,
When a King's favour shines upon ye gloriously,
And speaks his love in these—
Cel. O then love's the matter;
Sir-reverence love; now I begin to feel ye:
And I should be the Kings Whore, a brave title;
And go as glorious as the Sun, O brave still:
The chief Commandress of his Concubines,
Hurried from place to place to meet his pleasures.
Ant. A devilish subtil wench, but a rare spirit. (dry,