DAUGHTER.
She is horribly in love with him, poore beast,
But he is like his master, coy and scornefull.
IAILOR.
What dowry has she?
DAUGHTER.
Some two hundred Bottles,
And twenty strike of Oates; but hee’l ne’re have her;
He lispes in’s neighing, able to entice
A Millars Mare: Hee’l be the death of her.
DOCTOR.
What stuffe she utters!
IAILOR.
Make curtsie; here your love comes.
WOOER.
Pretty soule,
How doe ye? that’s a fine maide, ther’s a curtsie!
DAUGHTER.
Yours to command ith way of honestie.
How far is’t now to’th end o’th world, my Masters?
DOCTOR.
Why, a daies Iorney, wench.
DAUGHTER.
Will you goe with me?
WOOER.
What shall we doe there, wench?