And my curl'd locks wherein were ribands ty'd,
And with a water washt my tender eyes
(Whilst up and down about me still he skipt),
Whose virtue is, that till my eyes be wip'd
With a dry cloth, for this my foul disgrace,
I shall not dare to look a dog i' th' face.
Wife. Alas, poor knight. Relieve him, Ralph; relieve poor knights whilst you live.
Ralph. My trusty squire, convey him to the town,
Where he may find relief; adieu, fair knight. [Exit Knight.
Enter Dwarf, leading one with a patch over his nose.