Lash. I vow
You will not find her like in Lincolnshire.
Wild. Go to! She’s spavined.
Lash. Sir!
Wild. Touched in the wind.
Lash. I trust my master be not touched in the head!
I vow, a faultless beast! [Aside.]
Wild. I want her not,
And that’s your answer. Go to the hosier’s, sir,
And bid him send me samples of his gear,
Of twenty different kinds.
Lash. I will, sir.—Sir!
Wild. Well, sir.
Lash. Squire Brush’s huntsman’s here, and says
His master’s kennel is for sale.
Wild. The dogs
Are only fit for hanging!—