BEATRICE.
What means the fool, trow?
MARGARET.
Nothing I; but God send everyone their heart’s desire!
HERO.
These gloves the Count sent me; they are an excellent perfume.
BEATRICE.
I am stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell.
MARGARET.
A maid, and stuffed! there’s goodly catching of cold.
BEATRICE.
O, God help me! God help me! how long have you professed apprehension?
MARGARET.
Ever since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely!
BEATRICE.
It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick.
MARGARET.
Get you some of this distilled Carduus benedictus, and lay it to your heart: it is the only thing for a qualm.
HERO.
There thou prick’st her with a thistle.