Phil. Look to it, though 'tis but a little weapon, yet I have known it make greater swellings than the sting of a bee. Do you long for a man?
Ire. Yes, a husbandman, and let the gods after take care for my children.
Phil. You'll find enou' to do it: is the Moor still with my lady?
Ire. I left her with her.
Phil. 'Tis a shame such people should be suffered near the Court.
Ire. Why, prythee?
Phil. As 'tis, there be so many inquisitive rascals, that we have much ado to keep matters secret; but if in despite of our care they be divulged, we shall be defamed on the Exchanges.
Ire. Thou hast reason, but she is secret as the night she resembles.
Phil. Is she? I would fain ask her one question: but 'tis no matter: 'tis but taking physic at the worst.