Nur. Madam, not yet.
Evad. I wonder why he makes gowns so imperfect;
They need so many says.
Nur. Truly, in sooth, and in good deed, la, madam,
The stripling is in love: deep, deep in love.
Evad. Ha!
Does his soul shoot with an equal dart
From the commanding bow of love's great god,
Keep passionate time with mine? or has
She spi'd my error to reflect with eager beams
Of thirsty love upon a tailor, being myself
Born high? [Aside.]——I must know more—
In love, good nurse, with whom?
Nur. Truly, madam, 'tis a fortune,
Cupid, good lad—prais'd be his godhead for't,
Has thrown upon me, and I am proud on't;
O, 'tis a youth jocund as sprightly May,
One that will do discreetly with a wife,
Board her without direction from the stars,
Or counsel from the moon to do for physic;
No, he's a back;—O, 'tis a back indeed!
Evad. Fie! this becomes you not.
Nur. Besides, he is of all that conquering calling,
A tailor, madam: O, 'tis a taking trade!
What chambermaid—with reverence may
I speak of those lost maidenheads—
Could long hold out against a tailor?
Evad. Y' are uncivil.
Nur. What aged female, for
I must confess I am worn threadbare—
Would not be turn'd, and live a marriage life,
To purchase heaven?
Evad. Heaven——