Gera. Pray, let us walk: I would behold her better.
Wench. Buy some coifs, handkerchiefs, or very good bonelace, mistress?
Gert. None.
Wench. Will you buy any handkerchiefs, sir?
Spend. Yes. Have you any fine ones?
Wench. I'll show you choice: please you look, sir?
Spend. How now! what news?
Wench. Mistress Tickleman has sent you a letter, and expects your company at night: and entreats you to send her an angel, whether you can come, or whether you cannot.
[Spendall reads.
Sweet rascal; if your love be as earnest as your protestation, you will meet me this night at supper: you know the rendezvous. There will be good company; a noise of choice fiddlers;[153] a fine boy with an excellent voice; very good songs, and bawdy; and, which is more, I do purpose myself to be exceeding merry; but if you come not, I shall pout myself sick, and not eat one bit to-night,
Your continual close friend,
Nan Tickleman.