Trim. Dear Cynderaxa herself very well understood this instrument, I therefore always sung this song to it, as thus—
I.
Cynderaxa kind and good,
Has all my heart and stomach too;
She makes me love, not hate, my food,
As other peevish wenches do.
II.
When Venus leaves her Vulcan's cell,
Which all but I a coal-hole call;
Fly, fly, ye that above stairs dwell,
Her face is washed, ye vanish all.
III.
And as she's fair, she can impart
That beauty, to make all things fine;
Brightens the floor with wondrous art,
And at her touch the dishes shine.
Ld. H. I protest, Will, thou art a poet indeed. "And at her touch the dishes shine"—and you touch your lute as finely.
Enter Boy.
Boy. There's one Mr. Trusty below would speak with my lord.
Ld. H. Mr. Trusty? My father's steward? What can he have to say to me?
Cam. He's very honest, to my knowledge.
Ld. H. I remember, indeed, when I was turned out of the house he followed me to the gate and wept over me, for which I've heard he'd like to have lost his place. But, however, I must advise with you a little about my behaviour to him; let's in. Boy, bring him up hither, tell him I'll wait on him presently. [Exit Boy.
I shall want you, I believe, here, Trim. [Exeunt.
Re-enter Boy and Trusty.