The Lincolne earle hath sent you letters here,
And, with them, just an hundred pounds in gold. 115
Sweete, bonny wench, read them, and make reply.
Margret. The scrowls that Jove sent Danae,
Wrapt in rich closures of fine burnisht gold,
Were not more welcome than these lines to me.
Tell me, whilst that I doe unrip the seales, 120
Lives Lacie well? how fares my lovely lord?
Post. Well, if that wealth may make men to live well.