Rom. O then deare Saint, let lips do what hands do,
They pray (grant thou) least faith turne to dispaire

Iul. Saints do not moue,
Though grant for prayers sake

Rom. Then moue not while my prayers effect I take:
Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd

Iul. Then haue my lips the sin that they haue tooke

Rom. Sin from my lips? O trespasse sweetly vrg'd:
Giue me my sin againe

Iul. You kisse by'th' booke

Nur. Madam your Mother craues a word with you

Rom. What is her Mother?
Nurs. Marrie Batcheler,
Her Mother is the Lady of the house,
And a good Lady, and a wise, and Vertuous,
I Nur'st her Daughter that you talkt withall:
I tell you, he that can lay hold of her,
Shall haue the chincks

Rom. Is she a Capulet?
O deare account! My life is my foes debt