Mist. Mer. Alas, sir, I am a poor gentlewoman, and I have lost my money in this forest.
Ralph. Desert, you would say, lady, and not lost
Whilst I have sword and lance; dry up your tears,
Which ill befit the beauty of that face,
And tell the story, if I may request it,
Of your disastrous fortune.
Mist. Mer. Out alas, I left a thousand pound, a thousand pound, e'en all the money I had laid up for this youth, upon the sight of your mastership. You looked so grim, and as I may say it, saving your presence, more like a giant than a mortal man.
Ralph. I am as you are, lady, so are they
All mortal; but why weeps this gentle squire?
Mist. Mer. Has he not cause to weep do you think,
when he has lost his inheritance?