Eight hundred for a royal.
Ces. (aside). Now, methinks,
Ev’n now my lady at the lattice stands
Looking for me in vain, and murmuring
‘Why comes he not? I doubted I was late,
But he comes not at all!’ And then—Ah me,
I have forgotten to forget!—
(Aloud) Celia sings well, my lord?
Laz. A pretty woman
Can no more sing amiss than a good horse