_Pha_. Do Ladies of this Country use to give no more respect
to men of my full being?

_Gal_. Full being! I understand you not, unless your Grace
means growing to fatness; and then your only remedy
(upon my knowledge, Prince) is in a morning a Cup of
neat White-wine brew'd with _Carduus_, then fast till
supper, about eight
you may eat; use exercise, and keep a Sparrow-hawk, you
can shoot in a Tiller; but of all, your Grace must flie
_Phlebotomie_, fresh Pork, Conger, and clarified Whay;
They are all dullers of the vital spirits.

_Pha_. Lady, you talk of nothing all this while.

_Gal_. 'Tis very true Sir, I talk of you.

_Pha_. This is a crafty wench, I like her wit well, 'twill be
rare to stir up a leaden appetite, she's a _Danae_, and
must be courted in a showr of gold. Madam, look
here, all these and more, than--

_Gal_. What have you there, my Lord? Gold? Now, as I
live tis fair gold; you would have silver for it to play
with the Pages; you could not have taken me in a
worse time; But if you have present use my Lord,
I'le send my man with silver and keep your gold
for you.

_Pha_. Lady, Lady.