of you all Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty, She I’ll swear hath corns. Am I the master here, or you? Go to. You’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good. Trust to’t, bethink you, I’ll fa you. Do you like this haste? We’ll keep no great ado,—a friend