Her. With riding: a plague on all coaches for me!

Chloe. Is that hard-favour'd gentleman a poet too, Cytheris?

Cyth. No, this is Hermogenes: as humorous as a poet, though: he is
a musician.

Chloe. A musician! then he can sing.

Cyth. That he can, excellently; did you never hear him?

Chloe. O no: will he be entreated, think you?

Cyth. I know not.--Friend, mistress Chloe would fain hear
Hermogenes sing: are you interested in him?

Gal. No doubt, his own humanity will command him so far, to the
satisfaction of so fair a beauty; but rather than fail, we'll all
be suitors to him.

Her. 'Cannot sing.

Gal. Prithee, Hermogenes.

Her. 'Cannot sing.

Gal. For honour of this gentlewoman, to whose house I know thou
mayest be ever welcome.

Chloe. That he shall, in truth, sir, if he can sing.