Edward. Gramercie, Nell, for I do love the lord,
As he thats second to my selfe[1516] in love. 65
Raphe. You love her?—Madam Nell, never beleeve him you, though he sweares he loves you.
Ellinor. Why, Raphe?
Raphe. Why, his love is like unto a tapsters glasse that is broken with every tuch; for he loved the faire maid of Fresingfield once out of all hoe.[1517]—Nay, Ned, never wincke upon me: I care not, I.
Henrie. Raphe tels all; you shall have a good secretarie of him.— 73
But, Lacie, haste thee post to Fresingfield;
For ere thou hast fitted all things for her state, 75
The solemne marriage day will be at hand.
Lacie. I go, my Lord.