Bal. Who, I? No, I am not Sir Jeffrey Balurdo. I am not as well known by my wit as an alehouse by a red lattice.[181] I am not worthy to love and be beloved of Flavia.
Fla. I will not scorn to favour such good parts As are applauded in your rarest self. 227
Bal. Truly, you speak wisely, and like a jantlewoman of fourteen years of age. You know the stone called lapis; the nearer it comes to the fire, the hotter it is: and the bird, which the geometricians call avis, the farther it is from the earth, the nearer it is to the heaven; and love, the nigher it is to the flame, the more remote (there’s a word, remote!) the more remote it is from the frost. Your wit is quick; a little thing pleaseth a young lady, and a small favour contenteth an old courtier; and so, sweet mistress, I truss my codpiece point. 238
Enter Feliche.
Pier. What might import this flourish? Bring us word.
Feli. Stand away: here’s such a company of flyboats,[182] hulling[183] about this galleasse[184] of greatness, that there’s no boarding him.
Do you hear, yon thing call’d duke?
Pier. How now, blunt Feliche; what’s the news?
Feli. Yonder’s a knight, hath brought Andrugio’s head,
And craves admittance to your chair of state.
Cornets sound a senet. Enter Andrugio in armour.