Alex. I think you are in haste.
Tim. No, no, no, pray.
Alex. Whose lips are beds of roses, betwixt which
There steals a breath sweeter than Indian spices.
Tim. Sweeter than ginger!
Alex. But then to touch those lips you stay too long, sure?
Tim. Pish, I tell you I do not; I know my time. Pray, what's her name?
Alex. But 'tis descended from the ancient stem,
[O'] the great Trebatio,[53] Lindabride's her name;
That ancient matron is her reverend grannum.
Tim. Niggers, I have read of her in the Mirror of Knighthood.[54]
Alex. Come, they shall know you.
Tim. Nay, brother.