Gab. Mallyce with all her poysons cannot wounde Hys faire deserved reputatyon.
Bus. Sytts the wynde there?
Gab. Yes, syr, and blowes me hence In quest of hym I doe so much affecte. [Ex. Gabriella.
Ber. Stay, Ile goe with you.
Bus. Oh, by no meanes, madam; Methynkes your longe attendance at the courte Should make you not so apt to spoyle good sporte.
Ber. Sdeath! sporte! pray let me goe.
Bus. Not yet, by Venus. You fyrst shall knowe my soule hath deeplye vowed My love and servyce to your excellent selfe.
Ber. Verye good sir,
I knowe y'are sonne unto the Mynion.
But yet I knowe your father loves you not,
And thats good too.
Bus. If truthe at courte be good For any thynge, then, madam, you say true. For tys most true that I—
Ber. Pray let me goe.