ANA. How now?
MEN. Nothing, but lay you upon the cushion, sir, or so.
ANA. Nothing, but lay the cushion upon you, sir.
MEN, What, my little Nam? By this foot, I am sorry I mistook thee.
ANA. What, my little Men? By this hand, it grieves me I took thee so right. But, sirrah, whither with these cushions?
MEN. To lay them here, that the judges may sit softly, lest my Lady
Lingua's cause go hard with her.
ANA. They should have been wrought with gold; these will do nothing. But what makes my lady with the judges?
MEN. Pish! know'st not? She sueth for the title of a Sense, as well as the rest that bear the name of the Pentarchy.
ANA. Will Common Sense and my master leave their affairs to determine that controversy?
MEN. Then thou hear'st nothing.