Euph. Let us be happy
To hear it, sir.
Dot. Take it as it is— [He reads.
Dear, do not your fair beauty wrong;
In thinking still you are too young.
Euph. How! too young?
Bar. Let him alone; I know the song.
Dot. The rose and lilies in your cheek
Flourish, and no more ripeness seek;
Your cherry lip, red, soft and sweet,
Proclaims such fruit for taste most meet:
Then lose no time, for love has wings,
And flies away from aged things.
How do you like it, gentlemen?
Euph. Very well. The song's a good one.
Bar. O, monstrous!
Never man stole with so little judgment.
Euph. Of all the love-songs that were ever made,
He could not have chose out one more unfit,
More palpably unfit, that must betray
His most ridiculous theft.