Thom. Not for the world: but where's my Mistress,
And prithee say how does she? I melt to see her,
And presently: I must away.
Dor. Then do so,
For o' my faith, she will not see you Brother.
Thom. Not see me? I'll—
Dor. Now you play your true self;
How would my father love this! I'll assure you
She will not see you; she has heard (and loudly)
The gambols that you plaid since your departure,
In every Town ye came, your several mischiefs,
Your rowses and your wenches; all your quarrels,
And the no-causes of 'em; these I take it
Although she love ye well, to modest ears,
To one that waited for your reformation,
To which end travel was propounded by her Uncle,
Must needs, and reason for it, be examined,
And by her modesty, and fear'd too light too,
To fyle with her affections; ye have lost her
For any thing I see, exil'd your self.
Thom. No more of that, sweet Doll, I will be civil.
Dor. But how long?
Thom. Would'st thou have me lose my Birth-right?
For yond old thing will disinherit me
If I grow too demure; good sweet Doll, prithee,
Prithee, dear Sister, let me see her.
Dor. No.
Thom. Nay, I beseech thee, by this light.
Dor. I, swagger.