Jail. No.
Daugh. I have often,
He dances very finely, very comely,
And for a Jigg, come cut and long tail to him,
He turns ye like a Top.
Jail. That's fine indeed.
Daugh. He'll dance the Morris twenty mile an hour.
And that will founder the best hobby-horse
(If I have any skill) in all the parish,
And gallops to the turn of Light a'love,
What think you of this horse?
Jail. Having these virtues
I think he might be brought to play at Tennis.
Daugh. Alas that's nothing.
Jail. Can he write and read too?
Daugh. A very fair hand, and casts himself th' accounts
Of all his Hay and Provender: that Hostler
Must rise betime that cozens him; you know
The Chesnut Mare the Duke has?
Jail. Very well.
Daugh. She is horribly in love with him, poor beast,
But he is like his Master, coy and scornful.