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Section 524
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Flo.
Old Sir, I know
She prizes not such trifles as these are:
The gifts she lookes from me, are packt and lockt
Vp in my heart, which I haue giuen already,
But not deliuer’d. O heare me breath my life
Before this ancient Sir, whom (it should seeme)
Hath sometime lou’d: I take thy hand, this hand,
As soft as Doues‑downe, and as white as it,
Or Ethyopians tooth, or the fan’d snow, that’s bolted
By th’Northerne blasts, twice ore.