M. Mery. What shall we then doe with hir?
R. Royster. Ah foolish harebraine,
This is not she.
M. Mery. No is?[423] why then unsayde againe,
And what yong girle is this with your mashyp so bolde?
R. Royster. A girle?
M. Mery. Yea. I dare say, scarce yet three score yere old. 34
R. Royster. This same is the faire widowes nourse of whome ye wotte.
M. Mery. Is she but a nourse of a house? hence home olde trotte,
Hence at once.