Asca. Health to ye, Sir.
Io. Nay, then, God be our speed.
Ara. Forgive me, Sir; I sawe ye not indeed.
Asca. Pardon me rather for molesting you.
Io. Such another face I never knew.
Ara. Thus, studious, I am wont to passe the time By true proportion of each line from line.
Io. Oh now I see he was learning to spell: Theres A. B. C. in midst of his table.
Asca. Tell me, I pray ye, sir, may I be bold to crave. The cause of your abode within this cave?
Ara. To tell you that, in this extreme distresse,
Were but a tale of Fortunes ficklenesse.
Sometime I was a Prince of Lesbos Ile
And liv'd beloved, whilst my good stars did smile;
But clowded once with this world's bitter crosse
My joy to grife, my gaine converts to losse.
Asca. Forward, I pray ye; faint not in your tale.