Peer.
Make a beast of a man!
The Old Man.
Nay, my son, you mistake;
I make you a mannerly wooer, no more.
A bright orange bow we'll allow you to wear,
And that passes here for the highest of honours.
Peer.
[Reflectively.]
It's true, as the saying goes: Man's but a mote.
And it's wisest to follow the fashion a bit.
Tie away!
The Old Man.
You're a tractable fellow, I see.
The Courtier.
Just try with what grace you can waggle and whisk it!
Peer.
[Peevishly.]
Ha, would you force me to go still further?
Do you ask me to give up my Christian faith?
The Old Man.
No, that you are welcome to keep in peace.
Doctrine goes free; upon that there's no duty;
It's the outward cut one must tell a troll by.
If we're only at one in our manners and dress,
You may hold as your faith what to us is a horror.
Peer.
Why, in spite of your many conditions, you are
A more reasonable chap than one might have expected.
