DOCTOR.
Go, go;
You fathers are fine fools. Her honesty?
An we should give her physic till we find that!
WOOER.
Why, do you think she is not honest, sir?
DOCTOR.
How old is she?
WOOER.
She’s eighteen.
DOCTOR.
She may be,
But that’s all one; ’tis nothing to our purpose.
Whate’er her father says, if you perceive
Her mood inclining that way that I spoke of,
Videlicet, the way of flesh—you have me?
WOOER.
Yes, very well, sir.
DOCTOR.
Please her appetite,
And do it home; it cures her, ipso facto,
The melancholy humour that infects her.
WOOER.
I am of your mind, Doctor.
Enter Jailer, Jailer’s Daughter and Maid.
DOCTOR.
You’ll find it so. She comes, pray, humour her.