_Ver._ In truth, I think in conscience [I] shall dye for you: Good Master weep not, do you want aught, Sir? Will you have any money, here's some Silver; And here's a little Gold, 'twill serve to play, And put more troublesome thoughts out of your mind: I pray Sir take it, I'll get more with singing. And then I'll bring it you, my Lady ga't me, And--it was not covetousness, But I forgot to tell you sooner on't. _Mont._ Alas boy, thou art not bound to tell it me, And less to give it, buy thee Scarfs and Garters, And when I have money, I will give thee a sword: Nature made thee a beauteous Cabinet To lock up [all] the goodness of the earth. _Enter Charlote._ _Ver._ I have lost my voice with the very sight of this Gentlewoman: good Sir steal away, you were wont to be a curious avoider of womens company. _Mont._ Why boy, thou dar'st trust me any where, dar'st thou not? _Ver._ I had rather trust you by a roaring Lion, than a ravening woman. _Mont._ Why boy? _Ver._ Why truly she devours more mans flesh-- _Mont._ I, but she roars not boy. _Ver._ No Sir, why she is never silent but when her mouth is full. _Charl._ Monsieur _Montague_. _Mont._ My sweet fellow, since you please to call me so. _Ver._ Ah my conscience, she wou'd be pleas'd well enough to call you bed-fellow: oh Master, do not hold her by the hand so: a woman is a Lime-bush, that catcheth all she toucheth. _Charl._ I do most dangerously suspect this boy to be a wench; art thou not one? come hither, let me feel thee. _Ver._ With all my heart. _Charl._ Why dost thou pull off thy Glove? _Ver._ Why, to feel whether you be a boy, or no. _Charl._ Fie boy, go too. I'll not look your head, nor comb your locks any more, if you talk thus. _Ver._ Why, I'll sing to you no more then. _Charl._ Fie upon't, how sad you are! a young Gentleman that was the very Sun of _France_. _Mont._ But I am in the eclipse now. _Cha[r]l._ Suffer himself to be over-run with a Lethargy of melancholy and discontent! rouze up thy spirit, man, and shake it off: A Noble Soul is like a Ship at Sea, That sleeps at Anchor when the Ocean's calm; But when she rages, and the wind blows high, He cuts his way with skill and Majesty. I would turn a Fool, or Poet, or any thing, or marry, to make you merry; prethee let's walk: good _Veramour_, leave thy Master and me, I have earnest business with him. _Ver._ Pray do you leave my Master, and me: we were very merry before you came, he does not covet womens company. What have you to do with him? come Sir will you go? And I'll sing to you again: I'faith his mind is stronger than to credit Womens vows, and too pure to be capable of their loves.