Some two hundred Bottles,
And twenty strike of Oates; but hee'l ne're have her;
He lispes in's neighing, able to entice
A Millars Mare: Hee'l be the death of her.
DOCTOR.
What stuffe she utters!
IAILOR.
Make curtsie; here your love comes.
WOOER.
Pretty soule,
How doe ye? that's a fine maide, ther's a curtsie!
DAUGHTER.
Yours to command ith way of honestie.
How far is't now to'th end o'th world, my Masters?
DOCTOR.
Why, a daies Iorney, wench.
DAUGHTER.
Will you goe with me?
WOOER.
What shall we doe there, wench?
DAUGHTER.
Why, play at stoole ball:
What is there else to doe?
WOOER.
I am content,
If we shall keepe our wedding there.
DAUGHTER.
Tis true:
For there, I will assure you, we shall finde
Some blind Priest for the purpose, that will venture
To marry us, for here they are nice, and foolish;
Besides, my father must be hang'd to morrow
And that would be a blot i'th businesse.
Are not you Palamon?
WOOER.
Doe not you know me?
DAUGHTER.
Yes, but you care not for me; I have nothing
But this pore petticoate, and too corse Smockes.
WOOER.
That's all one; I will have you.
DAUGHTER.
Will you surely?
WOOER.
Yes, by this faire hand, will I.
DAUGHTER.
Wee'l to bed, then.
WOOER.
Ev'n when you will. [Kisses her.]
DAUGHTER.
O Sir, you would faine be nibling.
WOOER.
Why doe you rub my kisse off?
DAUGHTER.
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