Your honey turn'd So soon to gall?
_Selby_.

Gall'd am I, and with cause, And rid to death, yet cannot get a riddance, Nay, scarce a ride, by this proud Widow's leave.
_Lucy_.

Something you wrote me of a Mistress Frampton.
_Selby_.

She came at first a meek admitted guest, Pretending a short stay; her whole deportment Seem'd as of one obliged.

A slender trunk, The wardrobe of her scant and ancient clothing, Bespoke no more.