Hoiday! if fair fine Mistress Custance saw you now,
Ralph Roister Doister were her own, I warrant you.
R. Roister. Ne'er a master by your girdle?
M. Merry. Your good Mastership's
Mastership were her own mistresship's mistresship's.
Ye were take up for hawks; ye were gone, ye were gone:
But now one other thing more yet I think upon.
R. Roister. Show what it is.
M. Merry. A wooer, be he never so poor,
Must play and sing before his best-beloved's door.