_Bus_. Oh, by no meanes, madam;
Methynkes your longe attendance at the courte
Should make you not so apt to spoyle good sporte.

_Ber_. Sdeath! sporte! pray let me goe.

_Bus_. Not yet, by _Venus_.
You fyrst shall knowe my soule hath deeplye vowed
My love and servyce to your excellent selfe.

_Ber_. Verye good sir,
I knowe y'are sonne unto the Mynion.
But yet I knowe your father loves you not,
And thats good too.

_Bus_. If truthe at courte be good
For any thynge, then, madam, you say true.
For tys most true that I--

_Ber_. Pray let me goe.

_Bus_. Shunne not hys syghte that dothe adore your syghte.
How fares the Empresse? Like to a bloweinge rose
Nypt with a colde frost, will she styll keepe in
Cyrckled with ice?

_Ber_. I knowe not nor I care not.

_Bus_. But you can guesse.--Or in the frosts Dyspighte