San. Felicity! fit for thy envy, Love!
You will not fail now, madam?
Cle. To be such,
As you shall count that hour your happiest. [Exeunt.
Enter Browfildora and Oniate.
Oni. This is a challenge! Prythee, my small friend,
May not a man take th' height of my lord's spirit,
Looking on thee?
Brow. Pray, sir, leave off your mirth,
And write my lord your answer.
Oni. Little sir,
I never learnt that pretty quality:
I cannot write; only by word of mouth——
Brow. Your place, sir?
Oni. The market-place.
Brow. 'Tis fantastic: and my lord will take it ill.
Your weapons, sir.