CLARE.
God a mercy, my good host Blague:
Thou hast a good seat here.
HOST. Tis correspondent or so: there's not a Tartarian nor a Carrier shall breath upon your geldings; they have villainous rank feet, the rogues, and they shall not sweat in my linen. Knights and Lords too have been drunk in my house, I thank the destinies.
HARRY. Pre' thee, good sinful Innkeeper, will that corruption, thine Ostler, look well to my gelding. Hay, a pox a these rushes!
HOST. You Saint Dennis, your gelding shall walk without doors, and cool his feet for his masters sake. By the body of S. George, I have an excellent intellect to go steal some venison: now, when wast thou in the forest?
HARRY. Away, you stale mess of white-broth! Come hither, sister, let me help you.
CLARE. Mine Host, is not Sir Richard Mounchensey come yet, according to our appointment, when we last dined here?
HOST. The knight's not yet apparent.—Marry, here's a forerunner that summons a parle, and saith, he'll be here top and top- gallant presently.
CLARE. Tis well, good mine host; go down, and see breakfast be provided.
HOST. Knight, thy breath hath the force of a woman, it takes me down; I am for the baser element of the kitchen: I retire like a valiant soldier, face point blank to the foe-man, or, like a Courtier, that must not shew the Prince his posteriors; vanish to know my canuasadoes, and my interrogatories, for I serve the good Duke of Norfolk.
[Exit.]