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If he for gold will give us any food;

I faint almost to death.

Touch.

Holla! you clown!

Ros.

Peace, fool, he’s not thy kinsman.

Cor.

Who calls?

Touch.

Your betters, sir.

Cor.

Else are they very wretched.

Ros.

Peace, I say. Good even to [you], friend.

Cor.

And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.

Ros.

I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold

Can in this desert place buy entertainment,

Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.

Here’s a young maid with travel much oppressed,

And faints for succor.

Cor.

Fair sir, I pity her,

And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,

My fortunes were more able to relieve her;

But I am shepherd to another man,

And do not shear the fleeces that I graze.

My master is of churlish disposition,

And little reaks to find the way to heaven

By doing deeds of hospitality.

Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed

Are now on sale, and at our sheep-cote now

By reason of his absence there is nothing

That you will feed on; but what is, come see,