We say that Shore’s wife hath a pretty foot,
A cherry lip, a passing pleasing tongue:
That the Queen’s kindred are made gentle folks.
How say you, Sir? Can you deny all this?
Brak. With this, my Lord, myself have nought to do.
Glo. What, fellow, nought to do with Mistress Shore?
I tell you, Sir, he that doth nought with her,
Excepting one, were best to do it secretly alone.
Brak. What one, my Lord?
Glo. Her husband, knave—wouldst thou betray me?