Mom. Take wealth, and vertue both amongst you then,
They love ye, Knights, extreamely; and Sir Cut:
I give the chast Hippolita to you;
Sir Gyles, this Ladie—
Pen. Nay, stay there, my Lord. I have not yet prov'd all his Knightly parts I heare he is an excellent Poet too.
Tal. That I forgot sweet Lady; good sir Gyles, Have you no sonnet of your penne about ye?
Goos. Yes, that I have I hope, my Lord, my Cosen.
Fur. Why, this is passing fit.
Goos. I'de be loth to goe without paper about me against my Mistris, hold my worke againe; a man knows not what neede he shall have perhaps.
Mom. Well remembred a mine honour sir Gyles.
Goos. Pray read my Lord, I made this sonnet of my Mistris.
Rud. Nay reade thy selfe, man.
Goos. No intruth, sir Cut: I cannot reade mine owne hand.