Asca. I love a Boy?
Ara. Mine art doth tell me so.
Asca. Adde not a fresh increase vnto my woe.
Ara. I dare avouch, what lately I have saide, The love that troubles you is for no maide.
Asca. As well I might be said to touch the skie,
Or darke the horizon with tapestrie,
Or walke upon the waters of the sea,
As to be haunted with such lunacie.
Ara. If it be false mine Art I will defie.
Asca. Amazed with grief my love is then transform'd.
Io. Maister, be contented; this is leape yeare: Women weare breetches, petticoats are deare; And thats his meaning, on my life it is.
Asca. Oh God, and shal my torments never cease?
Ara. Represse the fury of your troubled minde; Walke here a while, your Lady you may finde.