Dorcas. 
Is it true too, think you?

Autolycus. 
Five justices’ hands at it; and witnesses more than my pack
will hold.

Clown. 
Lay it by too:  another.

Autolycus. 
This is a merry ballad; but a very pretty one.

Mopsa. 
Let’s have some merry ones.

Autolycus.  Why, this is a passing merry one, and goes to the tune of ’Two maids wooing a man.’  There’s scarce a maid westward but she sings it:  ’tis in request, I can tell you.

Mopsa. 
We can both sing it:  if thou’lt bear a part, thou shalt hear;
’tis in three parts.

Dorcas. 
We had the tune on’t a month ago.

Autolycus. 
I can bear my part; you must know ’tis my occupation:  have at it
with you.

[Song.]

Autolycus. 
   Get you hence, for I must go
   Where it fits not you to know.

Dorcas. 
   Whither?

Mopsa. 
   O, whither?

Dorcas. 
   Whither?

Mopsa. 
   It becomes thy oath full well
   Thou to me thy secrets tell.

Dorcas. 
   Me too!  Let me go thither.

Mopsa. 
   Or thou goest to the grange or mill: 

Dorcas. 
   If to either, thou dost ill.

Autolycus. 
   Neither.

Dorcas. 
   What, neither?

Autolycus. 
   Neither.

Dorcas. 
   Thou hast sworn my love to be;

Mopsa. 
   Thou hast sworn it more to me;
   Then whither goest?—­say, whither?

Clown.  We’ll have this song out anon by ourselves; my father and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we’ll not trouble them.—­Come, bring away thy pack after me.—­Wenches, I’ll buy for you both:—­Pedlar, let’s have the first choice.—­Follow me, girls.

[Exit with Dorcas and Mopsa.]

Autolycus.
[Aside.] And you shall pay well for ’em.

     Will you buy any tape,
     Or lace for your cape,
   My dainty duck, my dear-a? 
     Any silk, any thread,
     Any toys for your head,
   Of the new’st and fin’st, fin’st wear-a? 
     Come to the pedlar;
     Money’s a meddler
   That doth utter all men’s ware-a.

[Exit.]

[Re-enter Servant.]

Servant.  Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have made themselves all men of hair; they call themselves saltiers:  and they have dance which the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not in’t; but they themselves are o’ the mind (if it be not too rough for some that know little but bowling) it will please plentifully.

Shepherd. 
Away! we’ll none on’t; here has been too much homely foolery
already.—­I know, sir, we weary you.