The glory of this place makes me remember,
But dye those thoughts, dye all but my desires,
Even those to death are sick too; he's not here,
Nor how my eyes may guide me--

_1 Ush._ What's your business?
Who keeps the outward door there? here's fine shuffling,
You wastcoateer you must go back.

_Cel._ There is not,
There cannot be, six days and never see me?
There must not be desire; Sir, do you think
That if you had a Mistris--

_1 Ush._ Death, she is mad.

_Cel_. And were yourself an honest man? it cannot--

_1 Ush._ What a Devil hast thou to do with me or my honesty?
Will you be jogging, good nimble tongue,
My fellow door-keeper.

_2 Ush._ Prethee let her alone,

_1 Ush._ The King is coming,
And shall we have an agent from the Suburbs
Come to crave audience too?

_Cel._ Before I thought ye
To have a little breeding, some tang of Gentry;