DAUGHTER.
Yes, but you care not for me. I have nothing
But this poor petticoat, and two coarse smocks.
WOOER.
That’s all one; I will have you.
DAUGHTER.
Will you surely?
WOOER.
[Taking her hand.] Yes, by this fair hand, will I.
DAUGHTER.
We’ll to bed, then.
WOOER.
E’en when you will.
[Kisses her.]
DAUGHTER.
[Rubs off the kiss.] O sir, you would fain be nibbling.
WOOER.
Why do you rub my kiss off?
DAUGHTER.
’Tis a sweet one,
And will perfume me finely against the wedding.
Is not this your cousin Arcite?