Warn. You must excuse my master; the sea's a little working in his brain, sir.
Sir Mart. And your Prester Johns of the East Indies, and your great Turk of Rome and Persia.
Mood. Lord, what a thing it is to be learned, and a traveller! Bodikin, it makes me weep for joy; but, Anthony, you must not bear yourself too much upon your learning, child.
Mill. Pray, brother, be civil to this gentleman for my sake.
Sir Mart. For your sake, sister Millisent, much may be done, and here I kiss your hand on it.
Warn. Yet again, stupidity?
Mill. Nay, pray, brother, hands off; now you are too rude.
Sir Mart. Dear sister, as I am a true East India gentleman——
Mood. But pray, son Anthony, let us talk of other matters; and tell me truly, had you not quite forgot me? And yet I made woundy much of you, when you were young.
Sir Mart. I remember you as well as if I saw you but yesterday: A fine grey-headed—grey-bearded old gentleman, as ever I saw in all my life.