_Will._ Mistress Florence and Barbara, sir!

_Arth._ Why stand here prating, then?
Go follow; see no harm comes, quick, the road
Is dangerous. I'll wait here. Leave them not
Before they are safe in. [_Exit WILLIAM, R._]
For thy sake, Florence,
I will believe perfection's in thy sex.
How much I might have said. Yes! I have been
Imagination's wildest fool to deck
With qualities that did beseem them not
All the worst half of women. Thus we stoop
To pick up hectic apples from the ground,
Pierc'd by the canker or the unseen worm,
And tasting deem none other grow but they,
Whilst on the topmost branches of life's tree
Hangs fruitage worthy of the virgin choir
Of bright Hesperides. Soft! Who comes here?
Surely my rascal is not yet return'd--
The times are full of plotting. I will hide--

[_Stands aside. Voices heard._]

[_Enter four POACHERS, one carrying a fawn._]

_1st Poach._ I tell thee that I heard 'em bay.

_2nd Poach._ And I too! Curse me, but I thought
his fangs did meet in the calf of my leg.