Host.

Sweet heart, methinks now you are in an excellent good temperality; your pulsidge beats as extraordinarily as heart would desire; and your colour, I warrant you, is as red as any nose: but you have drank too much canary, and that's a marvellous searching wine; and it perfumes the blood, ere we can say what's this? How do you, now?

Dol.

Better than I was: hem.

Host.

Why, that was well said: a good heart's worth gold. Look, here comes Sir John.