Count.

Come on, sir; I shall now put you to the height of your breeding.

Clown.

I will shew myself highly fed, and lowly taught; I know my business is but to the court.

Count.

But to the court? why, what place make you special, when you put off that with such contempt? but to the court!

Clown.

Truly, madam, if heav'n have lent a man any manners, he may easily put it off at court: he that cannot make a leg, put off's cap, kiss his hand, and say nothing, has neither leg, hand, lip, nor cap; and, indeed, such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the court: but for me, I have an answer will serve all men.

Count.

Marry, that's a bountiful answer that fits all questions.

Clo.

As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney; as your French crown for your taffaty punk; as Tib's rush for Tom's fore-finger; as a pancake for Shrove Tuesday; a morris for May-day; as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his horn; as a scolding quean to a wrangling knave; as the nun's lip to the friar's mouth; nay, as the pudding to his skin.

Count.
An end, sir; to your business: give Helen this,
And urge her to a present answer back.
Commend me to my kinsmen, and my son:
This is not much.

Clo.

Not much commendation to them?

Count.

Not much imployment for you; you understand me.

Clo.

Most fruitfully, I am there before my legs.

Count.

Haste you again.