SPEED.
Let me read them.
LANCE.
Fie on thee, jolt-head, thou canst not read.
SPEED.
Thou liest. I can.
LANCE.
I will try thee. Tell me this, who begot thee?
SPEED.
Marry, the son of my grandfather.
LANCE.
O, illiterate loiterer! It was the son of thy grandmother.
This proves that thou canst not read.
SPEED.
Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper.
LANCE.
[Gives him the paper.] There; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed.
SPEED.
Imprimis, She can milk.
LANCE.
Ay, that she can.