Car. Faith, as the physicians do in a plague, see the world sick, and am well myself.
Fon. Here’s a sweet morning, gentlemen.
Lod. Oh, a morning to tempt Jove from his ningle,[231] Ganymede; which is but to give dairy-wenches green gowns as they are going a-milking. What, is thy lord stirring yet?
Ast. Yes, he will not be horsed this hour, sure.
Ber. My lady swears he shall, for she longs to be at court.
Car. Oh, we shall ride switch and spur; would we were there once.
Enter Bryan.
Lod. How now, is thy lord ready?
Bry. No, so crees sa’ me, my lady will have some little ting in her pelly first.