Away, you foolish knave, let my hand go.

DAFFODIL.
There is your hand, but this shall go with me:
My heart is thine, this is my true love's fee.

LUCY.
I'll have your coat stripped o'er your ears for this,
You saucy rascal.

[Enter Lancelot and Weathercock.]

LANCELOT.
How now, maid, what is the news with you?

LUCY.
Your man is something saucy.

[Exit Lucy.]

LANCELOT.
Go to, sirrah, I'll talk with you anon.

DAFFODIL.
Sir, I am a man to be talked withal,
I am no horse, I tro:
I know my strength, then no more than so.

WEATHERCOCK.
Aye, by the matkins, good Sir Lancelot,