Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Bap. How now my friend, why dost thou looke so
Bap. pale?
Hor. Hor.
Hor. For feare I promise you, if I looke pale.
Bap. Bap.
Bap. What, will my daughter proue a good Musiti
Bap. an?
Hor. I thinke she'l sooner proue a souldier,
Hor. Iron may hold with her, but neuer Lutes.
Bap. Why then thou canst not break her to the Lute?
Hor. Why no, for she hath broke the Lute to me:
Hor. I did but tell her she mistooke her frets,
Hor. And bow'd her hand to teach her fingering,
Hor. When (with a most impatient diuellish spirit)
Hor. Frets call you these? (quoth she) Ile fume with them:
Hor. And with that word she stroke me on the head,
Hor. And through the instrument my pate made way,