Wid. Your father? Yes.
Alex. I tell thee thou shalt not; no, no; I have such [38]—this rabbit's raw too.
Jar. There's but one raw bit, sir.
Alex. Thy jester, sure, shall have a coat.[39]
Wid. Let it be of your own cut, sir.
Alex. Nay, nay, nay; two to one is extremity—but, as I was telling thee, I have such a husband for thee: so knowing, so discreet, so sprightly—fill a cup of claret—so admirable in desires, so excellently deserving, that an old man—fie, fie, prythee. Here's to thee.
Wid. The man's mad, sure.
Jar. Mad! by this hand, a witty gallant.
John. Prythee, peace, shalt hear a song.