DAUGHTER.
Why, play at stoole ball:
What is there else to doe?
WOOER.
I am content,
If we shall keepe our wedding there.
DAUGHTER.
Tis true:
For there, I will assure you, we shall finde
Some blind Priest for the purpose, that will venture
To marry us, for here they are nice, and foolish;
Besides, my father must be hang’d to morrow
And that would be a blot i’th businesse.
Are not you Palamon?
WOOER.
Doe not you know me?
DAUGHTER.
Yes, but you care not for me; I have nothing
But this pore petticoate, and too corse Smockes.
WOOER.
That’s all one; I will have you.
DAUGHTER.
Will you surely?
WOOER.
Yes, by this faire hand, will I.
DAUGHTER.
Wee’l to bed, then.
WOOER.
Ev’n when you will. [Kisses her.]