Phao. Yea, Madam; and that in the boat did I mean to make my tale.
Venus. It is not for a ferryman to talk of the Gods Loves: but to tell how thy father could dig, and thy mother spin. But come, let us away.
Phao. I am ready to wait—
Sapho, sleepless for love of Phao, who loves her as much, consults with him about some medicinal herb: She, a great Lady; He, the poor Ferryman, but now promoted to be her Gardener.
Sapho. What herbs have you brought, Phao?
Phao. Such as will make you sleep, Madam; though they cannot make me slumber.
Sapho. Why, how can you cure me, when you cannot remedy yourself?
Phao. Yes, madam; the causes are contrary. For it is only a dryness in your brains, that keepeth you from rest. But—
Sapho. But what?
Phao. Nothing: but mine is not so—