Enter Sir Arthur Clare, Dorcas his lady, Millicent his daughter, young Harry Clare; the men booted, the gentlewomen in cloaks and safeguards;[241] Blague, the merry host of the George, comes in with them.
Host. Welcome, good knight, to the George at Waltham: my freehold, my tenements, goods and chattels. Madam, here's a room is[242] the very Homer and Iliads of a lodging, it hath none of the four elements in it; I built it out of the centre, and I drink ne'er the less sack. Welcome, my little waste of maidenheads: what? I serve the good Duke of Norfolk.[243]
Clare. God-a-mercy, my good host Blague!
Thou hast a good seat here.
Host. 'Tis correspondent or so: there's not a Tartarian[244] nor a carrier shall breathe upon your geldings: they have villanous 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.
H. Clare. Prythee, good sinful innkeeper, will that corruption, thine ostler, to look well to my gelding. Ha! a pox of these rushes.[245]
Host. You, St Denis, your gelding shall walk without doors, and cool his feet for his master's sake. By the body of Saint George, I have an excellent intellect to go steal some venison: now, when wast thou in the forest?
H. Clare. 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 parley, and, faith, he'll be here top and top-gallant presently.
Clare. 'Tis well; good mine host, go down and see breakfast be provided.