As how, I pray?

WEATHERCOCK.
Marry, I'll tell you: by promising young Flowerdale the
red lipped Lucy.

LANCELOT.
I'll rather follow her unto her grave.

WEATHERCOCK.
Aye, Sir Lancelot, I would have thought so too, but you
and I have been deceived in him: come read this will, or
deed, or what you call it, I know not. Come, come, your
spectacles I pray.

LANCELOT.
Nay, I thank God, I see very well.

WEATHERCOCK.
Marry, bless your eyes, mine hath been dim almost this
thirty years.

LANCELOT.
Ha, what is this? what is this?

WEATHERCOCK.
Nay, there is true love, indeed:
He gave it to me but this very morn,
And bid me keep it unseen from any one.
Good youth, to see how men may be deceived!