Marg. Nothing I; but God send every one their heart’s desire!
Hero. These gloves the count sent me; they are an 055 excellent perfume.
Beat. I am stuffed, cousin; I cannot smell.
[057] Marg. A maid, and stuffed! there’s goodly catching of cold.
Beat. O, God help me! God help me! how long have 060 you professed apprehension?
Marg. Even since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely?
Beat. It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick.
[065] Marg. 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 prickest her with a thistle.
Beat. Benedictus! why Benedictus? you have some 070 moral in this Benedictus.