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Jul.

Heavy? belike it hath some burden then?

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.

[Takes the letter.]

How now, minion?

Luc.

Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out.

And yet methinks I do not like this tune.

Jul.

You do not?

Luc.

No, madam, ’tis 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.

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:

You would be fing’ring them, to anger me.

Luc.

She makes it strange, but she would be best pleas’d

To be so ang’red with another letter.

[Exit.]

Jul.

Nay, would I were so ang’red with the same.

O hateful hands, to tear such loving words!