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Come, sweetest mistress mine, move we more quickly; Our horses wait us some few paces off; And by the baiting hour, when labouring hinds, Under some tree, sit round the loosen'd scrip, Holding on homely fare a merry feast, We will, like them, in all security, Enjoy a welcome rest.

Forbear, thou shameless woman.—Beatrice!

It is, my Lord; and O have pity on me! It is myself who am the most to blame. Pardon my dear, dear Maurice.—Yes, you will. Your look of strange amazement, changed to joy, Emboldens me.—Our hearts have long been join'd; O do not sever us!