There met you not with my true love
By the way as you came?"
Merch. Oh, Master Merry-thought! my daughter's gone!
This mirth becomes you not, my daughter's gone!
Old Mer. "Why an' if she be, what care I?
Or let her come, or go, or tarry."
Merch. Mock not my misery, it is your son
(Whom I have made my own, when all forsook him),
Has stol'n my only joy, my child, away.
Old Mer. "He set her on a milk-white steed,