Our fancies are more giddie and vnfirme,
More longing, wauering, sooner lost and worne,
Then womens are

Vio. I thinke it well my Lord

Du. Then let thy Loue be yonger then thy selfe,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent:
For women are as Roses, whose faire flowre
Being once displaid, doth fall that verie howre

Vio. And so they are: alas, that they are so:
To die, euen when they to perfection grow.
Enter Curio & Clowne.

Du. O fellow come, the song we had last night:
Marke it Cesario, it is old and plaine;
The Spinsters and the Knitters in the Sun,
And the free maides that weaue their thred with bones,
Do vse to chaunt it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of loue,
Like the old age

Clo. Are you ready Sir?
Duke. I prethee sing.

Musicke.

The Song.