Abs. Which of them mean you? Here was many.
Tim. Which? he in the white feather, that supped in the gallery: was't not white, Morbo?
Mor. As a lady's hand; by these five fingers.
Tim. White? No, no, 'twas a tawny, now I remember.
Mor. As a gipsy, by this hand: it looked white by candle-light, though.
Tim. That lusty springal,[150] Millicent, is no worse man
Than the Duke of Milan's son.
Abs. His excellent carriage spoke him of noble birth.
Tim. And this same duke's son loves you, Millicent.
Abs. Now Heaven defend me!
Tim. What, from a duke's son? marry, come up with a murrain, from whence came you, trow, ha?