Cour. 'Tis a poor wretch can hardly stand upright,
Drunk with thy love, and if he falls he lies.
Sylv. Courtine, is't you?
Cour. Yes, sweetheart, 'tis I; art thou ready for me?
Sylv. Fasten yourself to that cord there; there, there it is.
Cour. Cord! where? Oh, oh, here, here; so, now to Heaven in a string.
Sylv. Have you done?
Cour. Yes, I have done, child, and would fain be doing too, hussy.
Sylv. [To Will, within.] Then pull away, hoa up, hoa up, hoa up! So, avast there, sir!
[Courtine is drawn halfway up to the balcony.