Ser. A little Irish footboy, sir:
He stays without for an answer.
Ingen. Bid him come in. Lord!
What deep dissemblers are these females all.
How far unlike a friend this lady us'd me,
And here how like one mad in love she writes.
Enter Maid, like an Irish footboy, with a dart,[94] gloves in her pocket, and a handkerchief.
So bless me, heaven, but thou art the prettiest boy
That e'er ran by a horse! hast thou dwelt long
With thy fair mistress?
Maid. I came but this morning, sir.
Ingen. How fares thy lady, boy?
Maid. Like to a turtle that hath lost her mate,
Drooping she sits; her grief, sir, cannot speak.
Had it a voice articulate, we should know
How and for what cause she suffers; and perhaps—
But 'tis unlikely—give her comfort, sir.
Weeping she sits, and all the sound comes from her
Is like the murmur of a silver brook,
Which her tears truly would make there about her,
Sat she in any hollow continent.
Ingen. Believe me, boy, thou hast a passionate tongue,
Lively expression, or thy memory
Hath carried thy lesson well away.
But wherefore mourns thy lady?