_Gal_. Your Grace!

_Pha_. Shall I not be a trouble?

_Gal_. Not to me Sir.

_Pha_. Nay, nay, you are too quick; by this sweet hand.

_Gal_. You'l be forsworn Sir, 'tis but an old glove. If you
will talk at distance, I am for you: but good Prince,
be not bawdy, nor do not brag; these two I bar, and
then I think, I shall have sence enough to answer
all the weighty _Apothegmes_ your Royal blood shall
manage.

_Pha_. Dear Lady, can you love?

_Gal_. Dear, Prince, how dear! I ne're cost you a Coach
yet, nor put you to the dear repentance of a Banquet;
here's no Scarlet Sir, to blush the sin out it was given
for: This wyer mine own hair covers: and this face has
been so far from being dear to any, that it ne're cost
penny painting: And for the rest of my poor Wardrobe,
such as you see, it leaves no hand behind it, to make
the jealous Mercers wife curse our good doings.

_Pha_. You mistake me Lady.

_Gal_. Lord, I do so; would you or I could help it.