Michael: But who is this? the painter, my corrival, that would needs win Mistress Susan.

Clarke: How now, Michael? how doth my mistress and all at home?

Michael: Who? Susan Mosby? she is your mistress, too?

Clarke: Ay, how doth she and all the rest?

Michael: All’s well but Susan; she is sick.

Clarke: Sick? Of what disease?

Michael: Of a great fever.

Clarke: A fear of what?

Michael: A great fever.

Clarke: A fever? God forbid!

Michael: Yes, faith, and of a lordaine, too, as big as yourself.

Clarke: O, Michael, the spleen prickles you. Go to,you carry an eye over Mistress Susan.

Michael: I’ faith, to keep her from the painter.

Clarke: Why more from a painter than from a serving creature like yourself?

Michael: Because you painters make but a painting table of a pretty wench, and spoil her