MARG. Ay, but my lord, he must learn now to put on gravity.
EYRE. Peace, Maggy, a fig for gravity! When I go to Guildhall in my scarlet gown, Ill look as demurely as a saint, and speak as gravely as a justice of peace; but now I am here at Old Ford, at my good lord mayors house, let it go by, vanish, Maggy, Ill be merry; away with flip-flap, these fooleries, these gulleries. What, honey? Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. What says my lord mayor?
L. MAYOR. Ha, ha, ha! I had rather than a thousand pounds, I had an heart but half so light as yours.
EYRE. Be ruld sweet Rose: thart ripe for a man. Marry not with a boy that has no more hair on his face than thou hast on thy cheeks. A courtier, wash, go by, stand not upon pishery-pashery: those silken fellows are but painted images, outsides, outsides, Rose; their inner linings are torn. No, my fine mouse, marry me with a gentleman grocer like my lord mayor, your father; a grocer is a sweet trade: plums, plums. Had I a son or daughter should marry out of the generation and blood of the shoemakers, he should pack; what, the gentle trade is a living for a man through Europe, through the world. A noise within of a tabor and a pipe.
SYBIL. What, mistress, never fear; I dare venture my maidenhead to nothing, and thats great odds, that Hans the Dutchman, when we come to London, shall not only see and speak with you, but in spite of all your fathers policies steal you away and marry you. Will not this please you?