_Gal_. She's coming Sir behind, will take white mony. Yet
for all this I'le match ye.

[_Exit_ Gal. _behind the hangings_.

_Pha_. If there be two such more in this Kingdom, and
near the Court, we may even hang up our Harps: ten such
_Camphire_ constitutions as this, would call the golden
age again in question, and teach the old way for every ill
fac't Husband to get his own Children, and what a
mischief that will breed, let all consider.

[ _Enter_ Megra.

Here's another; if she be of the same last, the Devil
shall pluck her on. Many fair mornings, Lady.


_Meg_. As many mornings bring as many dayes,
Fair, sweet, and hopeful to your Grace.

_Pha_. She gives good words yet; Sure this wench is free.
If your more serious business do not call you,
Let me hold quarter with you, we'll take an hour
Out quickly.

_Meg_. What would your Grace talk of?

_Pha_. Of some such pretty subject as your self.