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 a.s.sure 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.

Tis a sweet one, And will perfume me finely against the wedding.

Is not this your Cosen Arcite?

DOCTOR.

Yes, sweet heart, And I am glad my Cosen Palamon Has made so faire a choice.

DAUGHTER.

Doe you thinke hee'l have me?

DOCTOR.

Yes, without doubt.

DAUGHTER.

Doe you thinke so too?

IAILOR.

Yes.

DAUGHTER.

We shall have many children:--Lord, how y'ar growne!

My Palamon, I hope, will grow, too, finely, Now he's at liberty: Alas, poore Chicken, He was kept downe with hard meate and ill lodging, But ile kisse him up againe.

[Emter a Messenger.]