MARY SEYTON.
What were you saying?
I see some jest run up and down your lips.

MARY CARMICHAEL.
Finish your song; I know you have more of it;
Good sweet, I pray you do.

MARY BEATON.
I am too sad.

MARY CARMICHAEL.
This will not sadden you to sing; your song
Tastes sharp of sea and the sea's bitterness,
But small pain sticks on it.

MARY BEATON.
Nay, it is sad;
For either sorrow with the beaten lips
Sings not at all, or if it does get breath
Sings quick and sharp like a hard sort of mirth:
And so this song does; or I would it did,
That it might please me better than it does.

MARY SEYTON.
Well, as you choose then. What a sort of men
Crowd all about the squares!

MARY CARMICHAEL.
Ay, hateful men;