JAILER.
That’s fine, indeed.
DAUGHTER.
He’ll dance the morris twenty mile an hour,
And that will founder the best hobby-horse
If I have any skill in all the parish,
And gallops to the tune of “Light o’ love.”
What think you of this horse?
JAILER.
Having these virtues,
I think he might be brought to play at tennis.
DAUGHTER.
Alas, that’s nothing.
JAILER.
Can he write and read too?
DAUGHTER.
A very fair hand, and casts himself th’ accounts
Of all his hay and provender. That hostler
Must rise betime that cozens him. You know
The chestnut mare the Duke has?
JAILER.
Very well.
DAUGHTER.
She is horribly in love with him, poor beast;
But he is like his master, coy and scornful.
JAILER.
What dowry has she?
DAUGHTER.
Some two hundred bottles,
And twenty strike of oates; but he’ll ne’er have her.
He lisps in’s neighing, able to entice
A miller’s mare. He’ll be the death of her.