Sci. By my sooth! his tongue serveth him now trim.
What sayest thou, Ingnorancy? Speak again!
Wit. Nay, lady! I am not Ingnorancy, plain,
But I am your own dear lover, Wit,
That hath long loved you, and loveth you yet;
Wherefore I pray thee now, my own sweeting!
Let me have a kiss at this our meeting.
Sci. Yea, so ye shall, anon, but not yet.
Ah, sir! this fool here hath got some wit.
Fall you to kissing, sir, now-a-days?
Your mother shall charm you; go your ways!
Wit. What needeth all this, my love of long grown?
Will ye be so strange to me, your own?
Your acquaintance to me was thought easy;
But now your words make my heart all queasy,
Your darts at me so strangely be shot.
Sci. Hear ye what terms this fool here hath got?
Wit. Well, I perceive my foolishness now;
Indeed, ladies no dastards allow;
I will be bold with my own darling!
Come now, a bass, my own proper sparling!
Sci. What wilt thou, arrant fool?
Wit. Nay, by the mass!
I will have a bass or I hence pass!
Sci. What wilt thou, arrant fool? Hence, fool, I say!
Wit. What! nothing but fool, and fool, all this day?
By the mass, madam! ye can no good.