Abra. Gentlemen, I desire your better acquaintance. You must pardon my father; he's somewhat rude, and my mother grossly brought up, as you may perceive.
C. Fred. Young Master Abraham! cry ye mercy, sir.
Abra. Your lordship's poor friend, and Sir Abraham Ninny.
The dub-a-dub of honour, piping hot
Doth lie upon my worship's shoulder-blade.
Sir Inn. Indeed, my lord, with much cost and labour we have got him knighted; and being knighted under favour, my lord, let me tell ye he'll prove a sore knight, as e'er run at ring. He is the one and only Ninny of our house.
L. Nin. He has cost us something, ere he came to this.
Hold up your head, Sir Abraham.
Abra. Pish, pish, pish, pish!
C. Fred. D'ye hear how—
Pen. O my lord.
Capt. Pouts. I had well hoped she could not have spoke, she is so fat.