Bul. Preferment! who should prefer me?
Rose. I would prefer you! who should prefer a man, but a woman? Come, throw away that great club, hold up your head, cock your hat, and look big.
Bul. Ah, Rouse, Rouse! I fear somebody will look big sooner than folk think of. Here has been Cartwheel, your sweetheart; what will become of him?
Rose. Lookye, I'm a great woman, and will provide for my relations: I told the captain how finely he played upon the tabor and pipe, so he sat him down for drum-major.
Bul. Nay, sister, why did not you keep that place for me? you know I have always loved to be a drumming, if it were but on a table, or on a quart pot.
Enter Sylvia.
Syl. Had I but a commission in my pocket, I fancy my breeches would become me as well as any ranting fellow of them all; for I take a bold step, a rakish toss, and an impudent air, to be the principal ingredients in the composition of a captain. What's here? Rose, my nurse's daughter! I'll go and practise. Come, child, kiss me at once. [Kisses her.] And her brother too! Well, honest Dungfork, do you know the difference between a horse and a cart, and a cart-horse, eh?
Bul. I presume that your worship is a captain, by your clothes and your courage.
Syl. Suppose I were, would you be contented to list, friend?
Rose. No, no; though your worship be a handsome man, there be others as fine as you. My brother is engaged to Captain Plume.