_Cit._ Will it so, sir? You are well read in histories: I pray you what was Sir Dagonet? Was not he prentice to a grocer in London? Read the play of the "Four Prentices of London," where they toss their pikes so. I pray you fetch him in, sir; fetch him in. _Boy._ It shall be done, it is not our fault, gentlemen. [_Exit._ _Wife._ Now we shall see fine doings, I warrant thee, George. Oh, here they come; how prettily the King of Cracovia's daughter is drest. _Enter_ RALPH _and the_ LADY, SQUIRE _and_ DWARF. _Cit._ Ay, Nell, it is the fashion of that country, I warrant thee. _Lady._ Welcome, Sir Knight, unto my father's court, King of Moldavia, unto me Pompiona, His daughter dear. But sure you do not like Your entertainment, that will stay with us No longer but a night. _Ralph._ Damsel right fair, I am on many sad adventures bound, That call me forth into the wilderness. Besides, my horse's back is something gall'd, Which will enforce me ride a sober pace. But many thanks, fair lady, be to you, For using errant knight with courtesy. _Lady._ But say, brave knight, what is your name and birth? _Ralph._ My name is Ralph. I am an Englishman, As true as steel, a hearty Englishman, And prentice to a grocer in the Strand, By deed indent, of which I have one part: But fortune calling me to follow arms, On me this holy order I did take, Of Burning Pestle, which in all men's eyes I bear, confounding ladies' enemies. _Lady._ Oft have I heard of your brave countrymen, And fertile soil, and store of wholesome food; My father oft will tell me of a drink In England found, and Nipitato call'd, Which driveth all the sorrow from your hearts. _Ralph._ Lady, 'tis true, you need not lay your lips To better Nipitato than there is. _Lady._ And of a wildfowl he will often speak, Which powdered beef and mustard called is: For there have been great wars 'twixt us and you; But truly, Ralph, it was not long of me. Tell me then, Ralph, could you contented be To wear a lady's favour in your shield? _Ralph._ I am a knight of a religious order, And will not wear a favour of a lady That trusts in Antichrist, and false traditions. _Cit._ Well said, Ralph, convert her if thou canst. _Ralph._ Besides, I have a lady of my own In merry England; for whose virtuous sake I took these arms, and Susan is her name, A cobbler's maid in Milk Street, whom I vow Ne'er to forsake, whilst life and pestle last. _Lady._ Happy that cobbling dame, whoe'er she be, That for her own (dear Ralph) hath gotten thee. Unhappy I, that ne'er shall see the day To see thee more, that bear'st my heart away. _Ralph._ Lady, farewell; I must needs take my leave. _Lady._ Hard-hearted Ralph, that ladies dost deceive.