Beat. 'Tis almost fiue a clocke cosin, 'tis time you
were ready, by my troth I am exceeding ill, hey ho
Mar. For a hauke, a horse, or a husband?
Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H
Mar. Well, and you be not turn'd Turke, there's no
more sayling by the starre
Beat. What meanes the foole trow?
Mar. Nothing I, but God send euery one their harts
desire
Hero. These gloues the Count sent mee, they are an
excellent perfume
Beat. I am stuft cosin, I cannot smell
Mar. A maid and stuft! there's goodly catching of
colde
Beat. O God helpe me, God help me, how long haue
you profest apprehension?
Mar. Euer since you left it, doth not my wit become
me rarely?
Beat. It is not seene enough, you should weare it in
your cap, by my troth I am sicke
Mar. Get you some of this distill'd carduus benedictus
and lay it to your heart, it is the onely thing for a qualm
Hero. There thou prick'st her with a thissell