Sencer. And I say, I will not tell you what is Latin for the earth, unless you yield me victor. Sir Harry. You have no reason: good Sir Timothy, The place is yours. Haringfield. He hath deserved it well. Sencer. But I’ll deserve it better: why, this fellow Is frantic; you shall hear me make him speak Idly and without sense. I’ll make him say His nose was husband to a Queen. [_He whispers_ Sir Harry. Sir Harry. Sir Timothy, not possible. Taber. He will not speak it for shame. Sencer. That you shall hear. Magister Boniface. Sir Boniface. _Quid ais_, domine Timothy? Sencer. Who was Pasiphe’s husband, Queen of Crete? Sir Boniface. Who knows not that? Why, Minos was her husband. Sencer. That his nose was; did I not tell you so? Sir Boniface. I say that Minos was. Sencer. That his nose was--ha, ha! Sir Harry. I’ll not believe it.-- Sir Boniface, there are a brace of angels; You are not for my turn. Sir Timothy, You are the man shall read unto my daughter The Latin tongue, in which I am ignorant. Confess yourself an ass; speak bawdy words; And after to talk idly! Hence, away! You shall have my good word, but not my pay. Sir Boniface. _Opus est usus_; Sir Timothy, you abuse us. I swear by a noun, had I thy hose down, _Qui, quæ, quod_, I would so smoke thee with the rod, _Ille, illa, illud_, until I fetched blood. But, _nobiles vaiete_, remain in _quiete_. [_Exeunt_ Sir Boniface _and_ Taber. Sir Harry. Sir Timothy, there is some gold in earnest, I like you well; take into your tuition My daughter Gratiana. [_Re-enter_ Taber.] The news, Taber? Taber. Of another gallant, noble sir, that pretends to have business both with you and my mistress. Sir Harry. Admit him. _Enter_ Young Chartley _very gallant, with_ Gratiana. Taber. Lusty Juventus,[4.47] will it please you to draw near? Young Chartley. Noble knight, whilst you peruse that [_Hands_ Sir Harry _a letter_], sweet lady, tell me how you like this? [_Kisses_ Gratiana. Gratiana. You press so suddenly upon me, sir, I know not what to answer. Sencer. [_Aside_.] Mad Chartley! what makes Desperation here? Young Chartley. To the word wooer let me add the name speeder; my father hath written to your father, and the cause of his writing at this present is to let you understand that he fears you have lived a maid too long; and therefore, to prevent all diseases incident to the same, as the green sickness and others, he sent me, like a skilful physician, to take order with you against all such maladies. If you will not credit me, list but how fervently my father writes in my behalf. Sir Harry. [_Reads_.] “He is my only son, and she, I take it, your only daughter. What should hinder then to make a match between them?” Well, ’tis well, ’tis good, I like it. “I will make her jointure three hundred pounds a year.”