Hyl. Her lips are monstrous rugged, but that surely
Is but the sharpness of the weather; hark ye [once] more,
And in your ear, sweet Mistress, for ye are so,
And ever shall be from this hour: I have vow'd it.
Enter Sebastian, and Launcelot.
Seb. Why, that's my daughter, Rogue, dost thou not see her
Kissing that fellow there, there in that corner?
Laun. Kissing?
Seb. Now, now, now they agree o'th' match too.
Thom. Nay then you love me not.
Hyl. By this white hand, Doll.
Thom. I must confess I have long desir'd your sight, Sir.
Laun. Why, there's the Boots still, Sir.
Seb. Hang Boots, Sir,
Why, they'll wear Breeches too.