Jul. Let’s see your song. [How now], minion!
Luc. Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out:
90 And yet methinks I do not like this tune.
Jul. You do not?
Luc.
No, madam; it is too sharp.
Jul. You, minion, are too saucy.
Luc. Nay, now you are too flat,
And mar the concord with too harsh a descant:
95 There wanteth but a mean to fill [your] song.