Cesar. My Bianca.
Hostes. Henceforward pray forbear her and my house:
She's a poor virtuous wench, yet her estate
May weigh with yours in a gold balance.
Host. Yes, and her birth in any Heralds office in
Christendom.
Hostes. It may prove so:
When you'll say, you have leapt a Whiting. [Exit.
Enter Baptista and Mentivole.
Ces. How far am I grown behind hand with fortune!
Bap. Here's Cesario!
My son Sir, is to morrow to be married
Unto the fair Clarissa.
Ces. So.
Ment. Wee hope you'll be a guest there.
Ces. No I will not grace your triumph so much.