Not them, no no, but you in them I love.
Be your words made (good sir) of Indean ware,
That you allowe them mee by so small rate,
Or do you cutted Spartanes imitate,
Or do you meane my tender eares to spare?
That to my questions you so totall are?
When I demaund of Phœnix Stellas state,
You say (forsooth) you left her well of late
O God, thinke you that satisfies my care?
I would know whether shee did sit or walke.