Hero. Why, how now? do you speak in the sick tune?
Beat. I am out of all other tune, methinks.
[038] Marg. Clap’s into ‘Light o’ love;’ that goes without a burden: do you sing it, and I’ll dance it.
[040] Beat. Ye light o’ love, with your heels! then, if your [041] husband have stables enough, you’ll see he shall lack no barns.
Marg. O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.
045 Beat. ’Tis almost five o’clock, cousin; ’tis time you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill: heigh-ho!
Marg. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?
Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H.
Marg. Well, an you be not turned Turk, there’s no 050 more sailing by the star.
Beat. What means the fool, trow?