God a mercy, my good host Blague:
Thou hast a good seat here.

HOST.
Tis correspondent or so: there's not a Tartarian nor a
Carrier shall breath upon your geldings; they have villainous
rank feet, the rogues, and they shall not sweat in my linen.
Knights and Lords too have been drunk in my house, I thank
the destinies.

HARRY.
Pre' thee, good sinful Innkeeper, will that corruption,
thine Ostler, look well to my gelding. Hay, a pox a these
rushes!

HOST.
You Saint Dennis, your gelding shall walk without doors, and
cool his feet for his masters sake. By the body of S. George,
I have an excellent intellect to go steal some venison: now,
when wast thou in the forest?

HARRY.
Away, you stale mess of white-broth! Come hither, sister,
let me help you.

CLARE.
Mine Host, is not Sir Richard Mounchensey come yet, according
to our appointment, when we last dined here?

HOST.