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.
DOCTOR.
What stuff she utters!
JAILER.
Make curtsy; here your love comes.