_Gab_. Spleene shall not taynte my goodnes
So muche as to account your errors follyes;
But, I proteste, were you another woman,
I should be bouldlye seryous and tell you
That all the wytts of chrystendome are spente
In stryppinge the corrupted harte of smoothnes:
And yet you thynke a smoothe perswadinge boy
Beares all hys daunger in hys cheeke and eie!
Shall weomen trust a sweete and courtlye face
When they themselves deceyve most by the face?
Why serves our owne dissemblinge arte if we
Cannot suspect when others doe dissemble?

_Eld_. True, daughter; love is like the weassell that went into the
meale-chamber; it comes in a littill chyncke no bygger then our eie
syghte, but haveinge a whyle fedd on imagynatyon dreames sonnetts to the
tune of syghes and heyhos; it growes plumpe and full of humor; it asks a
crannye as bygg as a conye borrowe to gett out agayne.

_Gab_. And wherefore then should I trust in the face?
Mother, tys true your sonne, my cruell brother,
The toe much wise, toe subtyll _Ganelon_,
Onlye withdrawes _Richards_ affectyon.
Even to my selfe a swore a should not love me;
And who that knowes hym, knowes he is not ledd
By the charme of hys voyce onlye?

_Eld_. Trust me, wenche,
Twas tyrannye to speake so; but in thys
Where lyethe our preventyon?