Hero.

Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire her to rise.

Ursu.

I will, lady.

Hero.

And bid her come hither.

Ursu.

Well.

Marg.

Troth I think your other rebato were better.

Hero.

No pray thee good Meg, I'll wear this.

Marg.

By my troth it's not so good, and I warrant your cousin will say so.

Hero.

My cousin's a fool, and thou art another. I'll wear none but this.

Marg.

I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair were a thought browner; and your gown's a most rare fashion i'faith. I saw the Dutchess of Milan's gown that they praise so.

Hero.

O, that exceeds, they say.

Marg.

By my troth, it's but a night-gown in respect of yours; cloth of gold and cuts, and lac'd with silver, set with pearls down-sleeves, side-sleeves and skirts, round, underborn with a blueish tinsel; but for a fine, queint, graceful and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on't.

Hero.

God give me joy to wear it, for my heart is exceeding heavy.

Marg.

'Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man.

Hero.

Fie upon thee, art not asham'd?

Marg.

Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? is not marriage honourable in a beggar? is not your lord honourable without marriage? I think you would have me say (saving your reverence) a husband. If bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I'll offend no body; is there any harm in the heavier for a husband? none I think, if it be the right husband, and the right wife, otherwise 'tis light and not heavy; ask my lady Beatrice else, here she comes.