Gay. How, Landlady! nay then, i’faith, no wonder if you rail so.
Land. Your Silver Sword I mean—transmogrified to this two-handed Basket Hilt—this old Sir Guy of Warwick—which will sell for nothing but old Iron. In fine, I’ll have my money, Sir, or i’faith, Alsatia shall not shelter you.
Enter Rag.
Gay. Well, Landlady—if we must part—let’s drink at parting; here, Landlady, here’s to the Fool—that shall love you better than I have done. [Sighing, drinks.
Land. Rot your Wine—dy’e think to pacify me with Wine, Sir?
[She refusing to drink, he holds open her Jaws, Rag throws a Glass of Wine into her Mouth.
—What, will you force me?—no—give me another Glass, I scorn to be so uncivil to be forced, my service to you, Sir—this shan’t do, Sir.
[She drinks, he, embracing her, sings.
Ah, Cloris, ’.is in vain you scold,
Whilst your Eyes kindle such a Fire.
Tour Railing cannot make me cold,
So fast as they a Warmth inspire.
Land. Well, Sir, you have no reason to complain of my Eyes nor my Tongue neither, if rightly understood. [Weeps.