Dil. What squeaking cart-wheel have we here? ha! “Make place, gentlemen; pages, hold torches; the prince approacheth the presence.”
Ros. Faugh, what a strong scent’s here! somebody useth to wear socks. 60
Bal. By this fair candle light, ’tis not my feet; I never wore socks since I sucked pap.
Ros. Savourly put off.
Cast. Hah, her wit stings, blisters, galls off the skin with the tart acrimony of her sharp quickness: by sweetness, she is the very Pallas that flew out of Jupiter’s brainpan. Delicious creature, vouchsafe me your service: by the purity of bounty, I shall be proud of such bondage.
Ros. I vouchsafe it; be my slave.—Signior Balurdo, wilt thou be my servant, too? 70
Bal. O God,[88] forsooth in very good earnest, law, you would make me as a man should say, as a man should say—
Feli. ’Slud, sweet beauty, will you deign him your service?
Ros. O, your fool is your only servant. But, good Feliche, why art thou so sad? a penny for thy thought, man.
Feli. I sell not my thought so cheap: I value my meditation at a higher rate. 80