[097] For blushing cheeks by faults are bred,
And fears by pale white shown:
Then if she fear, or be to blame,
100 By this you shall not know;
For still her cheeks possess the same
Which native she doth owe.
A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of white and red.
105 Arm. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar?
[107] Moth. The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since: but, I think, now ’tis not to be found; or, if it were, it would neither serve for the writing 110 nor the tune.
Arm. I will have that subject newly writ o’er, that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the park [114] with the rational hind Costard: she deserves well.