Ser. Close, sir, as the fist of a courtier that hath stood in three reigns.
Hip. Thou art a faithful servant, and observ’st
The calendar, both of my solemn vows,
And ceremonious sorrow. Get thee gone;
I charge thee on thy life, let not the sound
Of any woman’s voice pierce through that door.
Ser. If they do, my lord, I’ll pierce some of them;
What will your lordship have to breakfast?
Hip. Sighs.
Ser. What to dinner?
Hip. Tears.
Ser. The one of them, my lord, will fill you too full of wind, the other wet you too much. What to supper?
Hip. That which now thou canst not get me, the constancy of a woman.
Ser. Indeed that’s harder to come by than ever was Ostend.[194]
Hip. Prithee, away.