SIR RALPH. No, here's no Francis. Art thou Will, my man?
PHIL. Will Fool your man, Will goose[378] your man!
My back, sir, scorns to wear your livery.
SIR RALPH. Nay, sir, I mov'd but such a question to you,
And it hath not disparag'd you, I hope;
'Twas but mistaking; such a night as this
May well deceive a man. God be w'ye,[379] sir.
[Exit.]
PHIL. God's will, 'tis Sir Ralph Smith, a virtuous knight!
How gently entertains he my hard answer!
Rude anger made my tongue unmannerly:
I cry him mercy. Well, but all this while
I cannot find a Francis.—Francis, ho!
[Enter WILL.]
WILL. Francis, ho! O, you call Francis now!
How have ye us'd my Nan? come, tell me, how.
PHIL. Thy Nan! what Nan?
WILL. Ay, what Nan, now! say, do you not seek a wench?
PHIL. Yes, I do.
WILL. Then, sir, that is she.