Sir John. From whom is your letter?
Land. From your old uncle Anthony.
Sir John. Give me your letter quickly.
Land. Nay, soft and fair goes far.—Hold you, hold you. It is not in this pocket.
Sir John. Search in the other, then; I stand on thorns.
Land. I think I feel it now, this should be who.
Sir John. Pluck it out then.
Land. I'll pluck out my spectacles, and see first. [Reads.] To Mr Paul Grimbard—apprentice to——No, that's not for you, sir—that's for the son of the brother of the nephew of the cousin of my gossip Dobson.
Sir John. Pr'ythee despatch; dost thou not know the contents on't?
Land. Yes, as well as I do my pater noster.