Lilad. His Colonell lookes fienely like a drouer.
Nou. That had a winter ly’n perdieu i’th rayne.
Aym. What, he that weares a clout about his necke,
His cuffes in’s pocket, and his heart in’s mouth?
Nou. Now out vpon him!
Beau. Seruant, tye my hand. [125]
How your lips blush, in scorne that they should pay
Tribute to hands, when lips are in the way!
Nou. I thus recant, yet now your hand looks white
Because your lips robd it of such a right.
Mounsieur Aymour, I prethy sing the song [130]
Deuoted to my Mrs.
Cant. Musicke.
After the Song, Enter Rochfort, & Baumont.
Baum. Romont will come, sir, straight.
Roch. ’Tis well.