Bac. To a poor widows house that knows no end of her ill fortune: your Highness is most welcome.
Leon. Come kiss me then, this is but manners widow: Nere fling your head aside, I have more cause of grief than you: my Daughters dead: but what? 'Tis nothing. Is the rough French horse brought to the dore? They say he is a high goer, I shall soon try his mettle.
Tim. He will be Sir, and the gray Barbary, they are fiery both.
Leon. They are the better: Before the gods I am lightsome, very lightsome: How doest thou like me widow?
Bach. As a person in whom all graces are.
Leon. Come, come, ye flatter: I'll clap your cheek for that, and you shall not be angry.
Hast no Musick: Now could I cut three times with ease, and do a cross point, should shame all your gallants.
Bacha. I do believe you, and your self too: Lord what a fine old Zany my Love has made him! 'Is mine, I am sure: Heaven make me thankful for him.
[Leon.] Tell me how old thou art, my pretty sweet heart?
Timantus. Your Grace will not buy her, she may trip Sir?