But when mine eies survaid your beautious lookes,
Love, like a wagge, straight dived into my heart,
And there did shrine the Idea[1352] of your selfe. 80
Pittie me, though I be a farmers sonne,
And measure not my riches, but my love.
Margret. You are verie hastie; for to garden well,
Seeds must have time to sprout before they spring
Love ought to creepe as doth the dials shade, 85
For timely[1353] ripe is rotten too too[1354] soone.
Bungay [advancing]. Deus hic; roome for a merrie frier!