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Enter Beatrice.

Hero. Good morrow, coz.

Beat. Good morrow, sweet Hero.

Hero. Why, how now? Do you speak in the sick tune?

Beat. I am out of all other tune, methinks.

Marg. Clap ’s into “Light a’ love”; that goes without a burden. Do you sing it, and I’ll dance it.

Beat. Ye light a’ love with your heels! then if your husband have stables enough, you’ll see he shall lack no barns.

Marg. O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.

Beat. ’Tis almost five a’ clock, cousin, ’tis time you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill. Heigh- ho!

Marg. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?

Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H.

Marg. Well, and you be not turn’d Turk, there’s no more sailing by the star.

Beat. What means the fool, trow?

Marg. Nothing I, but God send every one their heart’s desire!

Hero. These gloves the Count sent me, they are an excellent perfume.

Beat. I am stuff’d, cousin, I cannot smell.

Marg. A maid, and stuff’d! There’s goodly catching of cold.

Beat. O, God help me, God help me, how long have you profess’d apprehension?