By this you shall not know,
For still her cheekes possesse the same,
Which natiue she doth owe:
A dangerous rime master against the reason of white
and redde

Brag. Is there not a ballet Boy, of the King and the
Begger?
Boy. The world was very guilty of such a Ballet some
three ages since, but I thinke now 'tis not to be found: or
if it were, it would neither serue for the writing, nor the
tune

Brag. I will haue that subiect newly writ ore, that I
may example my digression by some mighty president.
Boy, I doe loue that Countrey girle that I tooke in
the Parke with the rationall hinde Costard: she deserues
well

Boy. To bee whip'd: and yet a better loue then my
Master

Brag. Sing Boy, my spirit grows heauy in loue

Boy. And that's great maruell, louing a light wench

Brag. I say sing

Boy. Forbeare till this company be past.
Enter Clowne, Constable, and Wench.