SIR ANDREW.
And you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?
MARIA.
Sir, I have not you by the hand.
SIR ANDREW.
Marry, but you shall have, and here’s my hand.
MARIA.
Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, bring your hand to th’ buttery bar and let it drink.
SIR ANDREW.
Wherefore, sweetheart? What’s your metaphor?
MARIA.
It’s dry, sir.
SIR ANDREW.
Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But what’s your jest?
MARIA.
A dry jest, sir.
SIR ANDREW.
Are you full of them?
MARIA.
Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.