Flo. Old sir, I know
She prizes not such trifles as these are:
The gifts she looks from me are pack'd and lock'd
Up in my heart; which I have given already,
But not deliver'd. O, hear me breathe my [life]
Before this ancient sir, [who], it should seem,
Hath sometime loved! I take thy hand, this hand,
As soft as dove's down and as white as it,
[Or] [Ethiopian's] tooth, or the fann'd snow that's bolted