Shape. Sirs, dare you believe it?
This thing, whose prayer it hath been these ten
Years that she may obtain the second tooth
And the third hair, now doats on me; on me,
That do refuse all that are past sixteen.
Slicer. Why, faith, this was her suit to me just now.
Hear. I had the first on't, then. A coachman or
A groom, were fitter far for her.
Slicer. You do
Honour her too much to think she deserves
A thing that can lust moderately: give her
The sorrel stallion in my lord's long stable.
Shape. Or the same-colour'd brother, which is worse.
Pot. Why, gentlemen——
Hear. Foh, foh! She hath let fly.
Pot. D'you think I have no more manners than so?
Shape. Nay, faith, I can excuse her for that; but
I must confess she spoke, which is all one.
Slicer. Her breath would rout an army sooner than
That of a cannon.