ACTUS I, SCÆNA 1.
Enter Constantia sola, with a letter in her hand.
Con. In this disguise, ere scarce my mourning robes
Could have a general note, I have forsook
My shape, my mother, and those rich demesnes,
Of which I am sole heir; and now resolve
In this disguise of page to follow him,
Whose love first caus'd me to assume this shape.
Lord, how my feminine blood stirs at the sight
Of these same breeches! methinks this codpiece[322]
Should betray me: well, I will try the worst.
Hither they say he usually doth come,
Whom I so much affect: what makes he here?
In the skirts of Holborn, so near the field,
And at a garden-house? he has some punk
Upon my life! No more: here he comes.
Enter Boutcher.
God save you, sir: your name, unless I err,
Is Master Thomas Boutcher.
Bout. 'Tis, sweet boy.
Con. I have a letter for you.
[Constantia delivers the letter; he reads it.
Bout. From whom is't?
Con. The inside, sir, will tell you; I shall see
What love he bears me now. [Aside.