_Dil._ 'Slud (cried Signior Balurdo), O for Don Rosicleer's[82] armour, in the _Mirror of Knighthood_! what coil's here? O for an armour, cannon-proof! O, more cable, more featherbeds![83] more featherbeds, more cable! till he had as much as my cable-hatband[84] to fence him. _Enter_ FLAVIA _in haste, with a rebato_.[85] _Cat._ Buxom Flavia, can you sing? song, song! _Fla._ My sweet Dildo, I am not for you at this time: Madam Rossaline stays for a fresh ruff to appear in the presence: sweet, away. 41 _Dil._ 'Twill not be so put off, delicate, delicious, spark-eyed, sleek-skinn'd, slender-waisted, clean-legg'd, rarely-shaped-- _Fla._ Who? I'll be at all your service another season: my faith, there's reason in all things. _Dil._ Would I were reason then, that I might be in all things. _Cat._ The breve and the semiquaver is, we must have the descant you made upon our names, ere you depart. _Fla._ Faith, the song will seem to come off hardly. 51 _Cat._ Troth not a wit, if you seem to come off quickly. _Fla._ Pert Catzo, knock[86] it lustily then. [_A song._ _Enter_ FOROBOSCO, _with two torches_: CASTILIO _singing fantastically_; ROSSALINE _running a coranto[87] pace, and_ BALURDO; FELICHE _following, wondering at them all_. _Foro._ Make place, gentlemen; pages, hold torches; the prince approacheth the presence. _Dil._ What squeaking cart-wheel have we here? ha! "Make place, gentlemen; pages, hold torches; the prince approacheth the presence." _Ros._ Faugh, what a strong scent's here! somebody useth to wear socks. 60 _Bal._ By this fair candle light, 'tis not my feet; I never wore socks since I sucked pap. _Ros._ Savourly put off. _Cast._ Hah, her wit stings, blisters, galls off the skin with the tart acrimony of her sharp quickness: by sweetness, she is the very Pallas that flew out of Jupiter's brainpan. Delicious creature, vouchsafe me your service: by the purity of bounty, I shall be proud of such bondage. _Ros._ I vouchsafe it; be my slave.--Signior Balurdo, wilt thou be my servant, too? 70 _Bal._ O God,[88] forsooth in very good earnest, law, you would make me as a man should say, as a man should say-- _Feli._ 'Slud, sweet beauty, will you deign him your service? _Ros._ O, your fool is your only servant. But, good Feliche, why art thou so sad? a penny for thy thought, man. _Feli._ I sell not my thought so cheap: I value my meditation at a higher rate. 80 _Bal._ In good sober sadness, sweet mistress, you should have had my thought for a penny: by this crimson satin that cost eleven shillings, thirteen pence, three pence halfpenny a yard, that you should, law!