his four-foot live one? And I have a jest for you, shall make my
small queen merry and wise.

Isen. You shall jest long before she's merry.

Wal. Ah! dowers and dowagers again! The money--root of all evil.
What comes here? [A Page enters.]
A long-winged grasshopper, all gold, green, and gauze? How these
young pea-chicks must needs ape the grown peacock's frippery!
Prithee, now, how many such butterflies as you suck here together on
the thistle-head of royalty?

Page. Some twelve gentlemen of us, Sir--apostles of the blind
archer, Love--owning no divinity but almighty beauty--no faith, no
hope, no charity, but those which are kindled at her eyes.

Wal. Saints! what's all this?

Page. Ah, Sir! none but countrymen swear by the saints nowadays:
no oaths but allegorical ones, Sir, at the high table; as thus,--'By
the sleeve of beauty, Madam;' or again, 'By Love his martyrdoms, Sir
Count;' or to a potentate, 'As Jove's imperial mercy shall hear my
vows, High Mightiness.'

Wal. Where did the evil one set you on finding all this heathenry?

Page. Oh, we are all barristers of Love's court, Sir; we have
Ovid's gay science conned, Sir, ad unguentum, as they say, out of
the French book.