Peele [cheerfully]. And shall have three more so I will. This player's life of mine is a weary one.
Anne [pertly]. And a thirsty one, too, methinks.
Giles [scandalized]. Come, wench! Ha' done gawking about, and haste! [Anne goes at right.] 'Er be a forrard gel, zur, though hendy. I be glad 'er's none o' mine, but my brother's in Shottery. He canna say I love 'is way o' making wenches so saucy.
Peele. A pox on you! The best-spirited maid I ha' seen in Warwickshire, I say. Forward? Man alive, wouldst have her like your blowsy wenches here, that lie i' the sun all day? I have seen no one so comely since I left London.
Giles [feebly]. But 'ere, zur, in Stratford—
Peele [hotly]. Stratford? I doubt if God made Stratford! Another day here and I should die in torment. Your grass lanes, your rubbly houses, fat burgesses, old women, your young clouter-heads who have no care for a bravely acted stage-play. [Bitingly.] "Can any good come out of Stratford?"
Giles. Noa, Maister Peele! Others ha' spoke more fairly—
Peele [impatiently]. My sack, man! Is the girl a-brewing it?
Giles. Anne! Anne! (I'll learn she to mess about.) Anne!
Anne [hurries in and serves Peele]. I heard you.