_Jul._ And yet I would I had o'erlook'd the letter: 50 It were a shame to call her back again, And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. What a fool is she, that knows I am a maid, And would not force the letter to my view! Since maids, in modesty, say 'no' to that 55 Which they would have the profferer construe 'ay.' Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love, That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse, And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod! How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence, 60 When willingly I would have had her here! How angerly I taught my brow to frown, When inward joy enforced my heart to smile! My penance is, to call Lucetta back, And ask remission for my folly past. 65 What, ho! Lucetta! _Re-enter LUCETTA._ _Luc._ What would your ladyship? _Jul._ Is't near dinner-time? _Luc._ I would it were; That you might kill your stomach on your meat, And not upon your maid. _Jul._ What is't that you took up so gingerly? 70 _Luc._ Nothing. _Jul._ Why didst thou stoop, then? _Luc._ To take a paper up that I let fall. _Jul._ And is that paper nothing? _Luc._ Nothing concerning me. 75 _Jul._ Then let it lie for those that it concerns. _Luc._ Madam, it will not lie where it concerns, Unless it have a false interpreter. _Jul._ Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme. _Luc._ That I might sing it, madam, to a tune. 80 Give me a note: your ladyship can set. _Jul._ --As little by such toys as may be possible. Best sing it to the tune of 'Light o' love.' _Luc._ It is too heavy for so light a tune. _Jul._ Heavy! belike it hath some burden, then? 85 _Luc._ Ay; and melodious were it, would you sing it. _Jul._ And why not you? _Luc._ I cannot reach so high. _Jul._ Let's see your song. How now, minion! _Luc._ Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out: And yet methinks I do not like this tune. 90 _Jul._ You do not? _Luc._ No, madam; it is too sharp. _Jul._ You, minion, are too saucy. _Luc._ Nay, now you are too flat, And mar the concord with too harsh a descant: There wanteth but a mean to fill your song. 95 _Jul._ The mean is drown'd with your unruly bass. _Luc._ Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus. _Jul._ This babble shall not henceforth trouble me. Here is a coil with protestation! [_Tears the letter._ Go get you gone, and let the papers lie: 100 You would be fingering them, to anger me. _Luc._ She makes it strange; but she would be best pleased To be so anger'd with another letter. [_Exit._