Sir J. Wor. Well, Luce, respect Sir Abraham, I charge you.
Luc. Father, my vow is pass'd: whilst the earl lives,
I ne'er will marry, nor will pine for him.
It is not him I love now, but my humour;
But since my sister he hath made his choice,
This wreath of willow, that begirds my brows,
Shall never cease to be my ornament,
'Till he be dead, or I be married to him.
Pen. Life! my lord; you had best marry 'em all three. They'll never be content else.
C. Fred. I think so, too.
Sir J. Wor. These are impossibilities. Come, Sir Abraham.
A little time will wear out this rash vow.
Abra. Shall I but hope?
Luc. O, by no means. I cannot endure these round breeches: I am ready to swoon at them.
Kate. The hose are comely.
Luc. And then his left leg: I never see it, but I think on a plum-tree.