_Enter Jailor, Daughter, Maid._ _Doct._ You'll find it so; she comes, pray honor her. _Jail._ Come, your Love _Palamon_ stays for you child, And has done this long hour, to visit you. _Daugh._ I thank him for his gentle patience, He's a kind Gentleman, and I am much bound to him, Did you never see the horse he gave me? _Jail._ Yes. _Daugh._ How do you like him? _Jail._ He's a very fair one. _Daugh._ You never saw him dance? _Jail._ No. _Daugh._ I have often, He dances very finely, very comely, And for a Jigg, come cut and long tail to him, He turns ye like a Top. _Jail._ That's fine indeed. _Daugh._ 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 turn of _Light a'love_, What think you of this horse? _Jail._ Having these virtues I think he might be brought to play at Tennis. _Daugh._ Alas that's nothing. _Jail._ Can he write and read too? _Daugh._ 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 Chesnut Mare the Duke has? _Jail._ Very well. _Daugh._ She is horribly in love with him, poor beast, But he is like his Master, coy and scornful. _Jail._ What Dowry has she? _Daugh._ Some two hundred Bottles, And twenty strike of Oats; but he'll ne'er have her; He lisps, in's neighing, able to entice A Millers Mare, He'll be the death of her. _Doct._ What stuff she utters! _Jail._ Make curt'sie, here your love comes. _Woo._ Pretty soul How doe ye? that's a fine Maid, there's a curt'sie. _Daugh._ Yours to command i'th' way of honesty; How far is't now to th' end o'th' world my Masters? _Doct._ Why a days journey wench. _Daugh._ Will you go with me? _Woo._ What shall we do there wench? _Daugh._ Why play at Stool-ball. What is there else to do? _Woo._ I am content If we shall keep our wedding there. _Daugh._ 'Tis true For there I will assure you, we shall find Some blind Priest for the purpose, that will venture To marry us, for here they are nice and foolish; Besides, my Father must be hang'd to morrow And that would be a blot i'th' business. Are not you _Palamon_? _Woo._ Do not you know me? _Daugh._ Yes, but you care not for me; I have nothing But this poor Petticoat, and two course Smocks. _Woo._ That's all one, I will have you. _Daugh._ Will you surely? _Woo._ Yes, by this fair hand will I. _Daugh._ We'll to bed then. _Woo._ Ev'n when you will. _Daugh._ Oh Sir, you would fain [b]e nibling. _Woo._ Why do you rub my kiss off?