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Kath.

What is your crest? a coxcomb?

Pet.

A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen.

Kath.

No cock of mine, you crow too like a craven.

Pet.

Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour.

Kath.

It is my fashion when I see a crab.

Pet.

Why, here’s no crab, and therefore look not sour.

Kath.

There is, there is.

Pet.

Then show it me.

Kath.

Had I a glass, I would.

Pet.

What, you mean my face?

Kath.

Well aim’d of such a young one.

Pet.

Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you.

Kath.

Yet you are wither’d.

Pet.

’Tis with cares.

Kath.

I care not.

Pet.

Nay, hear you, Kate. In sooth you scape not so.

Kath.

I chafe you if I tarry. Let me go.

Pet.

No, not a whit, I find you passing gentle:

’Twas told me you were rough and coy and sullen,

And now I find report a very liar;

For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous,

But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers.

Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askaunce,

Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will,