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She be no devil dress'd in woman's garb, Who, with her needle, can most cunningly The true and perfect semblance of real flowers, With stalk and leaves, as fairly fashion out As if upon a summer bank they grew.

First Lad. Ay, ay! no doubt! thou hear'st strange tales, I ween. Didst thou not tell us how, in foreign lands Full far from this, the nice and lazy dames Do set foul worms to spin their silken yarn? Ha, ha!(they all laugh.)

''Sec. Lad. (angrily.)'' I did not say so.

First Lad. Nay, nay, but thou didst! (laughing.)

Sec. Lad. Thou didst mistake me wilfully, in spite, Malicious as thou art!

Dwi. I pray you wrangle not! when ladies work They should tell pleasant tales or sweetly sing, Not quarrel rudely, thus, like villain's wives. Sing me, I pray you, the sweet song I love. You know it well: let all all your voices join.

Omnes. We will, good Dwina.