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Arm. Sweet invocation of a child, most pretty and pathetical!

Moth.

If she be made of white and red,

Her faults will ne’er be known,

For blush in cheeks by faults are bred,

And fears by pale white shown:

Then if she fear, or be to blame,

By this you shall not know,

For still her cheeks possess the same

Which native she doth owe.

A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of white and red.

Arm. Is there not a ballet, boy, of the King and the Beggar?

Moth. The world was very guilty of such a ballet some three ages since, but I think now ’tis not to be found; or if it were, it would neither serve for the writing nor the tune.

Arm. I will have that subject newly writ o’er, that I may example my digression by some mighty president. Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the park with the rational hind Costard. She deserves well.

Moth [Aside.] To be whipt; and yet a better love than my master.

Arm. Sing, boy, my spirit grows heavy in love.

Moth. And that’s great marvel, loving a light wench.