Well, neighbour Banks, once for all, am I to marry your sister?
Banks. That she best knows.
F. Gam. Ay, but she says she won't.
Banks. Then I dare say she won't, for though a woman, I never knew her to speak what she didn't think.
F. Gam. Then she won't have me? A fine thing this, that you and she, who are little better than paupers, dare be so damn'd saucy!
Banks. Why, farmer, I confess we're poor: but while that's the worst our enemies can say of us, we're content.
F. Gam. Od, dom it! I wish I had now a good, fair occasion to quarrel with him; I'd make him content with a devil to him; I'd knock'en down, send him to jail and—But I'll be up with him!
Enter Sim.
Sim. Oh, feyther, here's one Mr. Lamp, a ring-leader of showfolks come from Andover to act in our village. He wants a barn to play in, if you'll hire him yourn.
F. Gam. Surely, boy. I'll never refuse money. But, lest he should engage the great room in the inn, run thou and tell him—Stop, I'll go myself—A short cut through that garden.—