Ors. Mock not affliction got in your service, my lady.
Gla. My service? When did I tell you to sleep all night on your knees?
Ors. Sleep? Sleep, lady?
Gla. Ay, sleep. You are a knave. Bring me my lute.
Ors. Muttering] Sleep! There's thanks for you! [Exit]
Eld. Mistress, you must not play your lute here. The king's men are not like Sir Hubert's, and your voice will quick tell 'em there's a bird in the bower.
Gla. I am not afraid. What are men but creatures like ourselves?
Eld. Like ourselves? La, my lady!
Gla. There's no harm in them. You are a foolish dame.
[Re-enter Orson]