Herc. Why, I like you well for it.
Herod. No, troth, Fawn, I am not married.
Herc. Why, I like you better for it; ’fore heaven, I must love you!
Herod. Why, Fawn, why?
Herc. ’Fore heaven! you are blest with three rare graces—fine linen, clean linings, a sanguine complexion, and I am sure, an excellent wit, for you are a gentleman born. 60
Herod. Thank thee, sweet Fawn; but why is clean linen such a grace, I prithee?
Herc. O, my excellent and inward dearly-approved friend! What’s your name, sir? Clean linen is the first our life craves, and the last our death enjoys.
Herod. But what hope rests for Nymphadoro? Thou art now within the buttons of the prince. Shall the duke his father marry the lady?
Herc. ’Tis to be hoped not.
Nym. That’s some relief as long as there’s hope. 70