De. You say very right, Lady.
Sis. No, no; they are out of Spanish, as I remember.
De. I thinke it be out of Spanish, indeed.
Sis. Or else the Italian.
De. Troth, I know not which very well.
Sis. And yet you made 'em! Some gentlemen have the faculty to make verses and forgett what language was the Originall: tis Alamode, I confesse, sir.
De. Thers the mischiefe in poetry: a man might have told 200 lies in prose upon his owne name, and never miscaried.—But, leaving these rude rymes, Ladie, how do you like the novice that Sir Richard comended.
Sis. Mr. Courtwell?
De. Is he not a pretty Chrisome[249]? I could not choose but laugh to observe in what rurall deportment he came to salute you, that should have made his address in theis postures.
Sis. Tis enough, sir; I apprehend what you would doe. The truth is, touching that thing in black, I doe not love him.