DAUGHTER.
O Sir, you would faine be nibling.
WOOER.
Why doe you rub my kisse off?
DAUGHTER.
Tis a sweet one,
And will perfume me finely against the wedding.
Is not this your Cosen Arcite?
DOCTOR.
Yes, sweet heart,
And I am glad my Cosen Palamon
Has made so faire a choice.
DAUGHTER.
Doe you thinke hee’l have me?
DOCTOR.
Yes, without doubt.
DAUGHTER.
Doe you thinke so too?
IAILOR.
Yes.
DAUGHTER.
We shall have many children:—Lord, how y’ar growne!
My Palamon, I hope, will grow, too, finely,
Now he’s at liberty: Alas, poore Chicken,
He was kept downe with hard meate and ill lodging,
But ile kisse him up againe.
[Emter a Messenger.]