That tell me all I can doe is too little,
Be more unnatural than a silly bird?
Or feed or cloath my self superfluously,
And know, nay see you want? holy Saints keep me.
Jac.
Can I be wretched,
And know my self the Mother to such Goodness?
Oct.
Come let us drie our eyes, we'll have a feast,
Thanks to our little Steward.