Hor. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.
Bap. What, will my daughter prove a good musician?
Hor. I think she'll [sooner] prove a soldier:
Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.
Bap. Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute?
Hor. Why, no; for she hath broke the lute [to me].
I did but tell her she mistook her frets,
And bow'd her hand to teach her fingering;
When, with a [most] impatient devilish spirit,
'Frets, call you [these]?' quoth she; 'I'll fume with them:'