Marg. By my troth, 's but a nightgown in respect of yours--cloth-o'-gold and cuts, and lac'd with silver, set with pearls down sleeves, side-sleeves, and skirts, round underborne with a blush tinsel. But for a fine, quaint, graceful, and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on't. Hero. God give me joy to wear it! for my heart is exceeding heavy. Marg. 'Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man. Hero. Fie upon thee! art not ashamed? Marg. Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is not marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord honourable without marriage? I think you would have me say, 'saving your reverence, a husband.' An bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I'll offend nobody. Is there any harm in 'the heavier for a husband'? None, I think, an it be the right husband and the right wife. Otherwise 'tis light, and not heavy. Ask my Lady Beatrice else. Here she comes. [Enter Beatrice.] Hero. Good morrow, coz. Beat. Good morrow, sweet Hero. Hero. Why, how now? Do you speak in the sick tune? Beat. I am out of all other tune, methinks. Marg. Clap's into 'Light o' love.' That goes without a burden. Do you sing it, and I'll dance it. Beat. Yea, 'Light o' love' with your heels! then, if your husband have stables enough, you'll see he shall lack no barnes. Marg. O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels. Beat. 'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; 'tis time you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill. Hey-ho! Marg. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband? Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H. Marg. Well, an you be not turn'd Turk, there's no more sailing by the star. Beat. What means the fool, trow? Marg. Nothing I; but God send every one their heart's desire! Hero. These gloves the Count sent me, they are an excellent perfume. Beat. I am stuff'd, cousin; I cannot smell. Marg. A maid, and stuff'd! There's goodly catching of cold. Beat. O, God help me! God help me! How long have you profess'd apprehension? Marg. Ever since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely? Beat. It is not seen enough. You should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick. Marg. Get you some of this distill'd carduus benedictus and lay it to your heart. It is the only thing for a qualm. Hero. There thou prick'st her with a thistle. Beat. Benedictus? why benedictus? You have some moral in this 'benedictus.'