A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue:
That the queen’s kindred are made gentle folks:
How say you, Sir? can you deny all this?
Brackenbury.—With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.
Glo’ster.—What, naught to do with mistress Shore?
I tell thee, fellow,
He that doth naught with her, excepting one,
Were best to do it secretly, alone,
Brackenbury.—What one, my Lord?
Glo’ster.—Her husband, knave:—Would’st thou betray me?