Sir Jol. Pish, that's nothing, man, nothing; I can send for forty better when I please; doxies that will skip, strip, leap, trip, and do anything in the world, anything, old soul!
Cour. Dear, dear Sir Jolly, where and when?
Sir Jol. Odd! as simply as I stand here, her father was a knight.
Beau. Indeed, Sir Jolly! a knight, say you?
Sir Jol. Ay, but a little decayed: I'll assure you she's a very good gentlewoman born.
Cour. Ay, and a very good gentlewoman bred too.
Sir Jol. Ay, and so she is.
Beau. But, Sir Jolly, how goes my business forward? when shall I have a view of the quarry I am to fly at?
Sir Jol. Alas-a-day, not so hasty; soft and fair, I beseech you. Ah, my little son of thunder, if thou hadst her in thy arms now between a pair of sheets, and I under the bed to see fair play, boy; gemini! what would become of me? what would become of me? there would be doings! O lawd, I under the bed!