_Say._ Madam, I am bound t'ye; How now, fair Mistriss, working? _Cla._ Yes forsooth, Learning to live another day. _Say._ That needs not. _Cla._ No forsooth: by my truly but it does, We kn[o]w not what we may come to. _Eug._ 'Tis strange. _Say._ Come, I ha begg'd leave for you to play. _Cla._ Forsooth 'Tis ill for a fair Lady to be idle. _Say._ She had better be well-busied, I know that. Turtle: me thinks you mourn, shall I sit by you? _Cla._ If you be weary, Sir, you had best be gone (I work not a true stitch) now you're my mate. _Say._ If I be so, I must do more than side you. _Cla._ Ev'n what you will, but tread me. _Say._ Shall we bill? _Cla._ Oh no, forsooth. _Say._ Being so fair, my _Clara_, Why d'ye delight in Black-work? _Cla._ Oh White Sir, The fairest Ladies like the blackest men: I ever lov'd the colour: all black things Are least subject to change. _Say._ Why, I do love A black thing too: and the most beauteous faces Have oftnest of them: as the blackest eyes, Jet-arched brows, such hair: I'll kiss your hand. _Cla._ 'Twill hinder me my work Sir: and my Mother Will chide me, if I do not do my taske. _Say._ Your Mother, nor your Father shall chide: you Might have a prettier taske, would you be rul'd, And look with open eyes. _Cla._ I stare upon you: And broadly see you, a wondrous proper man, Yet 'twere a greater taske for me to love you Than I shall ever work Sir, in seven year, --O' this stitching, I had rather feel Two, than sow one:--this rogue h' as given me a stitch good faith sir: I shall prick you. Clean cross my heart: _Say._ In gooder faith, I would prick you againe. _Cla._] Now you grow troublesome: pish, the man is foolish. _Say._ Pray wear these trifles. _Cla._ Neither you, nor trifles, You are a trifle, wear your self, Sir, out, And here no more trifle the time away. _Say._ Come; you're deceiv'd in me, I will not wake, Nor fast, nor dye for you. _Cla._ Goose, be not you deceiv'd, I cannot like, nor love, nor live with you, Nor fast, nor watch, nor pray for you. _Eug._ Her old fit. _Say._ Sure this is not the way, nay, I will break Your melancholly. _Cla._ I shall break your pate then, Away, you sanguine scabbard. _Eug._ Out upon thee Thou'lt break my heart, I am sure. _Enter_ Alvarez, Piorato, Lucio, _and_ Bobadilla. _Say._ She's not yet tame. _Alv._ On Sir; put home: or I shall goad you here With this old Fox of mine, that will bite better: Oh, the brave age is gone; in my young daies A _Chevalier_ would stock a needle[s] point Three times together: strait i' th' hams? Or shall I give ye new Garters?