Ros. Good sweet Duke,
First let their voices strain for music’s prize.[166]
Give me the golden harp: 100
Faith, with your favour, I’ll be umperess.
Pier. Sweet niece, content: boys, clear your voice and sing.
First[167] Boy sings.
Ros. By this gold, I had rather have a servant with a short nose, and a thin hair, than have such a high-stretch’d minikin[168] voice.
Pier. Fair niece, your reason?
Ros. By the sweet of love, I should fear extremely that he were an eunuch.
Cast. Spark spirit, how like you his voice?
Ros. Spark spirit, how like you his voice! 110
So help me, youth, thy voice squeaks like a dry corkshoe:[169] come, come; let’s hear the next.
Second Boy sings.
Pier. Trust me, a strong mean. Well sung, my boy.