THE LADY. Where am I? What art thou?

THE MAN. I cry your mercy. I have mistook your person all this
while. Methought you were my Mary: my mistress.

THE LADY. _[outraged]_ Profane fellow: how do you dare?

THE MAN. Be not wroth with me, lady. My mistress is a marvellous
proper woman. But she does not speak so well as you. "All the
perfumes of Arabia"! That was well said: spoken with good accent and
excellent discretion.

THE LADY. Have I been in speech with you here?

THE MAN. Why, yes, fair lady. Have you forgot it?

THE LADY. I have walked in my sleep.

THE MAN. Walk ever in your sleep, fair one; for then your words drop
like honey.

THE LADY. _[with cold majesty]_ Know you to whom you speak, sir,
that you dare express yourself so saucily?

THE MAN. _[unabashed]_ Not I, not care neither. You are some lady
of the Court, belike. To me there are but two sorts of women: those
with excellent voices, sweet and low, and cackling hens that cannot
make me dream. Your voice has all manner of loveliness in it. Grudge
me not a short hour of its music.