Hangs by so small a haire or spiders thred,
And worne so too[1784] with time, it must needs fall, 145
And, like a well lur'de hawke, she knows her call.
[Enter Mall.]
Mal. Whist, brother, whist! my mother heard me tread,
And askt, Whose there? I would not answer her;
She calde, A light! and up shees gone to seeke me:
There when she findes me not, sheel hether come; 150
Therefore dispatch, let it be quickly done.
Francis, my loves lease I do let to thee,