[Enter Trueworth and Wildrake.]
Wild. Nay, Master Trueworth, I must needs be gone!
She treats me worse and worse! I am a stock,
That words have none to pay her. For her sake
I quit the town to-day. I like a jest,
But hers are jests past bearing. I am her butt,
She nothing does but practise on! A plague!—
Fly her shafts ever your way?
True. Would they did!
Wild. Art mad?—or wishest she should drive thee so?
True. Thou knowest her not.
Wild. I know not neighbour Constance?
Then know I not myself, or anything
Which as myself I know!
True. Heigh ho!
Wild. Heigh ho!
Why what a burden that for a man’s song!
Would fit a maiden that was sick for love.
Heigh ho! Come ride with me to Lincolnshire,
And turn thy “Heigh ho!” into “hilly ho!”
True. Nay, rather tarry thou in town with me.
Men sometimes find a friend’s hand of avail,
When useless proves their own. Wilt lend me thine?
Wild. Or may my horse break down in a steeple-chase!