How old is she?
WOOER.
She’s eighteene.
DOCTOR.
She may be,
But that’s all one; tis nothing to our purpose.
What ere her Father saies, if you perceave
Her moode inclining that way that I spoke of,
Videlicet, the way of flesh—you have me?
WOOER.
Yet, very well, Sir.
DOCTOR.
Please her appetite,
And doe it home; it cures her, ipso facto,
The mellencholly humour that infects her.
WOOER.
I am of your minde, Doctor.
[Enter Iaylor, Daughter, Maide.]
DOCTOR.
You’l finde it so; she comes, pray humour her.
IAILOR.
Come, your Love Palamon staies for you, childe,
And has done this long houre, to visite you.
DAUGHTER.
I thanke him for his gentle patience;
He’s a kind Gentleman, and I am much bound to him.
Did you nev’r see the horse he gave me?
IAILOR.
Yes.
DAUGHTER.
How doe you like him?
IAILOR.
He’s a very faire one.
DAUGHTER.
You never saw him dance?
IAILOR.
No.
DAUGHTER.
I have often.
He daunces very finely, very comely,
And for a Iigge, come cut and long taile to him,
He turnes ye like a Top.
IAILOR.
That’s fine, indeede.
DAUGHTER.
Hee’l dance the Morris twenty mile an houre,
And that will founder the best hobby-horse
(If I have any skill) in all the parish,
And gallops to the turne of LIGHT A’ LOVE:
What thinke you of this horse?
IAILOR.
Having these vertues,
I thinke he might be broght to play at Tennis.
DAUGHTER.
Alas, that’s nothing.
IAILOR.
Can he write and reade too?
DAUGHTER.
A very faire hand, and casts himselfe th’accounts
Of all his hay and provender: That Hostler
Must rise betime that cozens him. You know
The Chestnut Mare the Duke has?
IAILOR.
Very well.
DAUGHTER.
She is horribly in love with him, poore beast,
But he is like his master, coy and scornefull.
IAILOR.
What dowry has she?
DAUGHTER.
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?
