Mist. T. It’s but ill food when nothing’s left but the claw. 161
Ge. That’s true, mother. Ay me!
Mist. T. Nay, sweet lady-bird,[109] sigh not. Child, madam—why do you weep thus? Be of good cheer; I shall die if you cry, and mar your complexion thus.
Ge. Alas, mother, what should I do?
Mist. T. Go to thy sister’s, child; she’ll be proud thy ladyship will come under her roof. She’ll win thy father to release thy knight, and redeem thy gowns, and thy coach and thy horses, and set thee up again. 170
Ge. But will she get him to set my knight up too?
Mist. T. That she will, or anything else thou’lt ask her.
Ge. I will begin to love her if I thought she would do this.
Mist. T. Try her, good chuck,[110] I warrant thee.
Ge. Dost thou think she’ll do’t?