Bren. That's your master's doing. Thank the wise man for that!
Meth. It suits our mistresses well enough. They blink at a smile as an owlet at the sun. Troth, I've seen them weep so much that I feel wrapped in a fog with the vapor of their tears.
Tich. But let us be merry. No more sad airs, my sweet Methone.
Bren. [Aside] I like not this sugary possessive.... Play, my own sweetest Methone, and I'll sing you a song out of head.
Meth. Pray you, sing it not out of feet too, for a limping line is past carrying.
Bren. 'Tis a song of you and will go fast enough, I warrant.
Meth. [Scornfully] Of me?
Bren. Nay, of your jewels!
Meth. An you mock me, I'll——