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Enter LORD MAYOR, LINCOLN.
LINCOLN.
My Lord Maior, you have sundrie times
Feasted my selfe, and many Courtiers more,
Seldome, or never can we be so kind,
To make requtall or your curtesie:
But leaving this, I heare my cosen Lacie
Is much affected to your daughter Rose.
LORD MAYOR.
True my good Lord, and she loves him so wel,
That I mislike her boldnesse in the chace.
LINCOLN.
Why lord Maior, think you it then a shame,
To joyne a Lacie with an Otleys name?
LORD MAYOR.
Too meane is my poore girle for his high birth,
Poore Cittizens must not with Courtiers wed,
Who will in silkes, and gay apparrell spend
More in one yeare, then I am worth by farre,
Therefore your honour neede not doubt my girle.
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