Jail. What Dowry has she?
Daugh. Some two hundred Bottles,
And twenty strike of Oats; but he'll ne'er have her;
He lisps, in's neighing, able to entice
A Millers Mare,
He'll be the death of her.
Doct. What stuff she utters!
Jail. Make curt'sie, here your love comes.
Woo. Pretty soul
How doe ye? that's a fine Maid, there's a curt'sie.
Daugh. Yours to command i'th' way of honesty;
How far is't now to th' end o'th' world my Masters?
Doct. Why a days journey wench.
Daugh. Will you go with me?
Woo. What shall we do there wench?
Daugh. Why play at Stool-ball.
What is there else to do?