_Cat._ The breve and the semiquaver is, we must have the descant you made upon our names, ere you depart.
_Fla._ Faith, the song will seem to come off hardly. 51
_Cat._ Troth not a wit, if you seem to come off quickly.
_Fla._ Pert Catzo, knock[86] it lustily then.
_Enter_ FOROBOSCO, _with two torches_: CASTILIO _singing fantastically_; ROSSALINE _running a coranto[87] pace, and_ BALURDO; FELICHE _following, wondering at them all_.
_Foro._ Make place, gentlemen; pages, hold torches; the prince approacheth the presence.
_Dil._ What squeaking cart-wheel have we here? ha! "Make place, gentlemen; pages, hold torches; the prince approacheth the presence."
_Ros._ Faugh, what a strong scent's here! somebody useth to wear socks. 60
_Bal._ By this fair candle light, 'tis not my feet; I never wore socks since I sucked pap.
_Cast._ Hah, her wit stings, blisters, galls off the skin with the tart acrimony of her sharp quickness: by sweetness, she is the very Pallas that flew out of Jupiter's brainpan. Delicious creature, vouchsafe me your service: by the purity of bounty, I shall be proud of such bondage.
_Ros._ I vouchsafe it; be my slave.--Signior Balurdo, wilt thou be my servant, too? 70
_Bal._ O God,[88] forsooth in very good earnest, law, you would make me as a man should say, as a man should say--
_Feli._ 'Slud, sweet beauty, will you deign him your service?
_Ros._ O, your fool is your only servant. But, good Feliche, why art thou so sad? a penny for thy thought, man.
_Feli._ I sell not my thought so cheap: I value my meditation at a higher rate. 80
_Bal._ In good sober sadness, sweet mistress, you should have had my thought for a penny: by this crimson satin that cost eleven shillings, thirteen pence, three pence halfpenny a yard, that you should, law!
_Ros._ What was thy thought, good servant?
_Bal._ Marry forsooth, how many strike of pease would feed a hog fat against Christtide.
_Ros._ Paugh! [_she spits_] servant,[89] rub out my rheum, it soils the presence.
_Cast._ By my wealthiest thought, you grace my shoe with an unmeasured honour: I will preserve the sole of it, as a most sacred relic for this service. 92
_Ros._ I'll spit in thy mouth, and thou wilt, to grace thee.
_Feli._ [_Aside._] O that the stomach of this queasy age Digests, or brooks such raw unseasoned gobs, And vomits not them forth! O! slavish sots! Servant, quoth you? faugh! if a dog should crave And beg her service, he should have it straight: She'd give him favours too, to lick her feet, Or fetch her fan, or some such drudgery: 100 A good dog's office, which these amorists Triumph of: 'tis rare, well give her more ass, More sot, as long as dropping of her nose Is sworn rich pearl by such low slaves as those.