King.
This Castle hath a pleasant Seat; the Air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends it self
Unto our gentle Senses.

Ban.
This Guest of Summer,
The Temple-haunting Martlet does approve,
By his lov'd Mansonry, that the Heav'n's breath,
Smells wooingly here. No jutty frieze,
Buttrice, nor Coigne of Vantage, but this Bird
Hath made this pendant Bed, and procreant Cradle:
Where they most breed, and haunt, I have observ'd,
The Air is delicate. Enter Lady.

King.
See! see, our honour'd Hostess!
The Love that follows us, sometime is our Trouble,
Which still we thank as Love. Herein I teach you,
How you shall bid god-eyld us for your Pains,
And thank us for your Trouble.

Lady.
All our Service,
In every point twice done, and then done double,
Were poor, and single Business, to contend
Against those Honours deep, and broad,
Wherewith your Majesty loads our House:
For those of old, and the late Dignities,
Heap'd up to them, we rest your Hermits.

King.
Where's the Thane of Cawdor?
We courst him at the Heels, and had a purpose
To be his Purveyor: But he rides well,
And his great Love, sharp as his Spur, hath holp him
To his home before us: Fair and noble Hostess,
We are your Guest to Night.

Lady.
Your Servants ever,
Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs in compt,
To make their Audit at your Highness Pleasure,
Still to return your own.

King.
Give me your Hand;
Conduct me to mine Host, we love him highly,
And shall continue our Graces towards him.
By your leave, Hostess. [Exeunt.

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