Bar him you house.
LANCELOT.
Fie, not so, he's of good parentage.
WEATHERCOCK.
By my fai' and so he is, and a proper man.
LANCELOT.
Aye, proper, enough, had he good qualities.
WEATHERCOCK.
Aye, marry, there's the point, Sir Lancelot,
For there's an old saying:
Be he rich, or be he poor,
Be he high, or be he low:
Be he born in barn or hall,
Tis manners makes the man and all.
LANCELOT.
You are in the right, Master Weathercock.
[Enter Monsieur Civet.]
CIVET.
Soul, I think I am sure crossed, or witched with an
owl. I have haunted them, Inn after Inn, booth after
booth, yet cannot find them: ha, yonder they are;
that's she. I hope to God tis she! nay, I know tis she
now, for she treads her shoe a little awry.
LANCELOT.
Where is this Inn? we are past it, Daffodil.
DAFFODIL.
The good sign is here, sir, but the back gate is before.
CIVET.
Save you, sir. I pray, may I borrow a piece of a word
with you?
DAFFODIL.
No pieces, sir.
CIVET.
Why, then, the whole. I pray, sir, what may yonder
gentlewomen be?
DAFFODIL.
They may be ladies, sir, if the destinies and mortalities
work.
CIVET.
What's her name, sir?
DAFFODIL.
Mistress Frances Spurcock, Sir Lancelot Spurcock's
daughter.
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