Daught. Sir, will it please ye—
Bar. Ha!
Daught. Will it please ye, Sir—
Bar. Please me! what please me?—that I send thee, Girle, To some of my great Masters to beg for me. Didst thou meane so?
Daught. I meane, Sir—
Bar. Thou art too charitable
To prostitute thy beutie to releeve me;
With thy soft kisses to redeeme from fetters
The stubborne fortune of thy wretched father.
Daught. I understand ye not.
Bar. I hope thou do'st not.
Daught. My Lady Mother, Sir—
Bar. Prethee, good Girle, Be not so cruell to thy aged father To somme up all his miseries before him.