Will you buy any tape, Or lace for your cape, My dainty duck, my dear-a? Any silk, any thread, Any toys for your head, 310 Of the new'st, and finest, finest wear-a? Come to the pedlar; Money's a medler, That doth utter all men's ware-a. [_Exit._ _Re-enter_ Servant. _Serv._ Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, 315 three neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have made themselves all men of hair, they call themselves Saltiers, and they have a dance which the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not in't; but they themselves are o' the mind, if it be not too rough for some that know 320 little but bowling, it will please plentifully. _Shep._ Away! we'll none on't: here has been too much homely foolery already. I know, sir, we weary you. _Pol._ You weary those that refresh us: pray, let's see these four threes of herdsmen. 325 _Serv._ One three of them, by their own report, sir, hath danced before the king; and not the worst of the three but jumps twelve foot and a half by the squier. _Shep._ Leave your prating: since these good men are pleased, let them come in; but quickly now. 330 _Serv._ Why, they stay at door, sir. [_Exit._ _Here a dance of twelve Satyrs._ _Pol._ O, father, you'll know more of that hereafter. [_To Cam._] Is it not too far gone? 'Tis time to part them. He's simple and tells much. How now, fair shepherd! Your heart is full of something that does take 335 Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young And handed love as you do, I was wont To load my she with knacks: I would have ransack'd The pedlar's silken treasury and have pour'd it To her acceptance; you have let him go 340 And nothing marted with him. If your lass Interpretation should abuse and call this Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited For a reply, at least if you make a care Of happy holding her. _Flo._ Old sir, I know 345 She prizes not such trifles as these are: The gifts she looks from me are pack'd and lock'd Up in my heart; which I have given already, But not deliver'd. O, hear me breathe my life Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem, 350 Hath sometime loved! I take thy hand, this hand, As soft as dove's down and as white as it, Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow that's bolted By the northern blasts twice o'er.