LOR. Tush, tush, my lord! let goe these ambages,
And in plaine tearmes acquaint her with your loue.

BEL. What bootes complaint, when thers no remedy?

BAL. Yes, to your gracios selfe must I complaine,
In whose faire answere lyes my remedy,
On whose perfection all my thoughts attend,
On whose aspect mine eyes finde beauties bowre,
In whose translucent brest my hart is lodgde.

BEL. Alas, my lord! there but words of course,
And but deuise to driue me from this place.

She, going in, lets fall her gloue, which
HORATIO, comming out, takes vp.

HOR. Madame, your gloue.

BEL. Thanks, good Horatio; take it for thy paines.

[BEL-IMPERIA exits.]

BAL. Signior Horatio stoopt in happie time!

HOR. I reapt more grace that I deseru'd or hop'd.

LOR. My lord, be not dismaid for what is past;
You know that women oft are humerous: