Clown. Alas! blame not the poor fish, mistress: he, being a phlegmatic creature, took gold for restorative.[59] He took it fair; and he that gets gold, let him eat gold.

Wid. Nothing can hinder fate.

Doc. Seek not to cross it, then.

Wid. [To Joan.] About your business! you have not pleased me in this.

Joan. By my maidenhead! if I had thought you would have ta'en it no kindlier, you should ne'er have been vexed with the sight on't; the garbage should have been the cook's fees at this time. [Exit Joan.

Clown. Now do I see the old proverb come to pass—Give a woman luck, and cast her into the sea: there's many a man would wish his wife good luck on that condition he might throw her away so. But, mistress, there's one within would speak with you, that vexeth as fast against crosses as you do against good luck.

Wid. I know her sure, then; 'tis my gossip Foster.
 Request her in; here's good company, tell her.
Clown. I'll tell her so for my own credit's sake. [Exit.
Wid. Yon shall now see an absolute contrary:
 Would I had chang'd bosoms with her for a time!
 'Twould make me better relish happiness.

Enter Mistress Foster and Clown.

Mrs Fos. O friend and gossip, where are you? I am
 O'erladen with my griefs, and but in your bosom
 I know not where to ease me.
Clown. I had rather
 Help you to a close-stool, an't please you. [Aside.
Mrs Fos. Ne'er had woman more sinister fate;
 All ominous stars were in conjunction
 Even at my birth, and do still attend me.
Doc. This is a perfect contrary indeed.
Wid. What ails you, woman?
Mrs Fos. Unless seven witches had set spells about me,
 I could not be so cross'd; never at quiet,
 Never a happy hour, not a minute's content.
Doc. You hurt yourself most with impatience.
Mrs Fos. Ay, ay, physicians 'minister with ease,
 Although the patient do receive in pain:
 Would I could think but of one joyful hour!

Clown. You have had two husbands to my knowledge; and if you had not one joyful hour between both, I would you were hanged, i' faith. [Aside.

Mrs Fos. Full fourteen years I liv'd a weary maid,
 Thinking no joy till I had got a husband.
Clown. That was a tedious time indeed. [Aside.
Mrs Fos. I had one lov'd me well, and then ere long
 I grew into my longing peevishness.
Clown. There was some pleasure ere you came to that. [Aside.
Mrs Fos. Then all the kindness that he would apply,
 Nothing could please: soon after it he died.
Clown. That could be but little grief. [Aside.
Mrs Fos. Then worldly care did so o'erload my weakness,
 That I must have a second stay; I chose again,
 And there begins my griefs to multiply.
Wid. It cannot be, friend; your husband's kind.
Doc. A man of fair condition, well-reputed.
Clown. But it may be he has not that should please her.
Wid. Peace, sirrah! How can your sorrows increase from him?
Mrs Fos. How can they but o'erwhelm me? He keeps a son,
 That makes my state his prodigality;
 To him a brother, one of the city scandals.
 The one the hand, the other is the maw;
 And between both my goods are swallowed up.
 The full quantity that I brought amongst 'em
 Is now consum'd to half.
Wid. The fire of your spleen wastes it:
 Good sooth, gossip, I could laugh at thee, and only grieve
 I have not some cause of sorrow with thee:
 Prythee, be temperate, and suffer.
Doc. 'Tis good counsel, mistress; receive it so.
Wid. Canst thou devise to lay them half on me?
 And I'll bear 'em willingly.
Mrs Fos. Would I could! that I might laugh another while:
 But you are wise to heed at others' harms;
 You'll keep you happy in your widowhood.
Wid. Not I, in good faith, were I sure marriage
 Would make me unhappy.
Mrs Fos. Try, try, you shall not need to wish;
 You'll sing another song, and bear a part
 In my grief's descant, when you're vex'd at heart:
 Your second choice will differ from the first;
 So oft as widows marry, they are accurs'd.

Clown. Ay, cursed widows are; but if they had all stiff husbands to tame 'em, they'd be quiet enough.

Wid. You'll be gone, sir, and see dinner ready.
Clown. I care not if I do, mistress, now my stomach's ready;
 Yet I'll stay a little, an't be but to vex you.
Wid. When go you, sirrah?
Clown. I will not go yet.
Wid. Ha, ha, ha! thou makest me laugh at thee; prythee, stay.
Clown. Nay, then, I'll go to vex you. [Exit Clown.
Mrs Fos. You have a light heart, gossip.
Wid. So should you, woman, would you be rul'd by me.
 Come, we'll dine together; after walk abroad
 Unto my suburb garden,[60] where, if thou'lt hear,
 I'll read my heart to thee, and thou from thence
 Shall learn to vex thy cares with patience. [Exeunt.

FOOTNOTES:

[31] [This play was first reprinted by Dilke in his "Old English Plays," 1816.]

[32] The word factor is here used in a more limited sense than at present, as Richard and George appear to have been the exclusive servants of the other two.

[33] So Titania, in "A Midsummer Night's Dream"—

"We have laugh'd to see the sails conceive,
 And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind."

[34] [Old copy and Dilke, envy.]

[35] These are, I believe, the private marks of the merchants to denote the value of their goods, a sort of cipher known only to themselves. They may, however, allude to the marks affixed to the different packages in which the pieces were contained.

[36] Argosies [were ships chiefly used for commercial purposes, but also occasionally employed in what was known at Venice as the mercantile marine. They were of large size. The origin of the word is doubtful; but it probably comes from Argo, the name of the vessel which sailed, according to tradition, in the Argonautic cruise.] Gremio, in the "Taming of the Shrew," talks of an argosy which he would settle on Bianca, and then tauntingly asks—

"What, have I chok'd you with an argosy?"

[37] [Anticipate.]

[38] Pigeon-holes seems to have been the game which is sometimes called trow-madame, or trol-my-dames. See Steevens's note on "The Winter's Tale," act iv. sc. 2; and in Farmer's note on the same passage, the reader will find a description of the manner of playing it. [See "Popular Antiquities of Great Britain," ii. 325.]

[39] [This expression is repeated lower down, or it might have been supposed that a word was wanting to complete the sense. As it is, the meaning can be easily guessed at.]

[40] Roarer was the common cant word for the swaggering drunkard of our poet's age. Its occurrence is sufficiently common. So in Dekker's play, "If it be not a Good Play, the Devil's in it"—

"Those bloody thoughts will damn you into hell.

Sou. Do you think so? What becomes of our roaring boys then, that stab healths one to another?"

[41] [A play may be intended on rob and Robert.]

[42] This seems a cant expression, as Brewen several times uses it.

[43] [Old copy and Dilke, long enclosed.]

[44] [In the old copy and Dilke this speech is printed as prose. The old copy reads that's—can hardly.]

[45] Our poet here evidently alludes to a passage in the First Epistle to St John, chap. iii. ver. 10.

[46] i.e., Idle tales.

[47] It appears to have been the custom for the sheriff to have a post set up at his door as an indication of his office. So in the "Twelfth Night" of Shakespeare, Malvolio says of Cesario, "He'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post." See notes on act i. sc. 5, where the passage in the text has been quoted by Steevens.

[48] Our poet alludes here to the methods which are still frequently practised amongst beggars, of making artificial sores. The reader will find many of these mentioned by Prigg in act ii. sc. 1 of the "Beggar's Bush" of Beaumont and Fletcher. In the quarto this speech is in horrible metre; and the same may be observed of nearly the whole remainder of this scene, and until the clown quits the stage in the next.

[49] [Old copy and Dilke, heap on.]

[50] "'Sfoot I hate," [i.e., ha't] is the reading of the 4o.

[51] Caps of maintenance are said to be carried in state on occasions of great solemnity before the mayors of several cities in England. Stephen had before imagined himself arrayed with the gown and chain of an alderman; he is now describing his consequence as the future Lord Mayor of London.

[52] The dice.

[53] It is to be remembered that the doctor here introduced is a divine, and not a physician.

[54] [See "Popular Antiquities of Great Britain," ii., 293-5.]

[55] [Full of wit] So in "Hamlet"—

"How pregnant sometimes his replies are."

[56] [If.]

[57] [Thornbacks.]

[58] Our poet alludes here to a passage in the Epistle to the Hebrews, chap. xii. vers. 7 and 8.

[59] Gold was formerly used in medicine, and many imaginary virtues ascribed to it.

[60] These suburb gardens and garden-houses are constantly mentioned by the writers of that age. An extract from Stubbs's "Anatomy of Abuses," 1585 (quoted by Mr Gifford in a note on "The Bondman"), will afford the reader some information: "In the suberbes of the citie, they [the women] have gardens either paled or walled round about very high, with their harbours and bowers fit for the purpose; and lest they might be espied in these open places, they have their banqueting houses, with galleries, turrets, and what not, therein sumptuously erected, wherein they may, and doubtless do, many of them, play the filthy persons."

ACT II., SCENE I.

Enter Host Boxall, Stephen, Jack, Dick, and Hugh.

Host. Welcome still, my merchants of bona Speranza; what's your traffic, bullies? What ware deal you in?—cards, dice, bowls, or pigeon-holes? Sort 'em yourselves: either passage, Novem, or mumchance?[61] Say, my brave bursemen, what's your recreation?

Steph. Dice, mine host. Is there no other room empty?

Host. Not a hole unstopped in my house but this, my thrifts.

Jack. Miscall us not for our money, good mine host; we are none of your thrifts. We have 'scaped that scandal long ago.

Dick. Yes, his thrifts we are, Jack, though not our own.

Host. Tush, you are young men; 'tis too soon to thrive yet. He that gathers young, spends when he's old. 'Tis better to begin ill and end well, than to begin well and end ill. Miserable fathers have, for the most part, unthrifty sons. Leave not too much for your heirs, boys.

Jack. He says well, i' faith: why should a man trust to executors?

Steph. As good trust to hangmen as to executors. Who's in the bowling-alley, mine host?

Host. Honest traders, thrifty lads, they are rubbing on't; towardly boys, every one strives to lie nearest the mistress.[62]

Steph. Give's a bale of dice.[63]

Host. Here, my brave wags.

Steph. We fear no counters now, mine host, so long as we have your bale so ready.[64] Come, trip.

Jack. Up with's heels.

Dick. Down with them.

Hugh. Now the dice are mine; set me now a fair board; a fair passage, sweet bones! Boreas![65]

[A noise below in the bowling-alley of betting and wrangling.

Host. How now, my fine trundletails;[66] my wooden cosmographers; my bowling-alley in an uproar? Is Orlando up in arms? I must be stickler; I am constable, justice, and beadle in mine own house; I accuse, sentence, and punish: have amongst you! look to my box, boys![67] He that breaks the peace, I brake his pate for recompense: look to my box, I say! [Exit.

Steph. A pox o' your box! I shall ne'er be so happy to reward it better; set me fair; aloft now. [The dice are thrown.

Jack. Out.

Steph. What was't?

Dick. Two treys and an ace.

Steph. Seven still, pox on't! that number of the deadly sins haunts me damnably. Come, sir, throw.

Jack. Prythee, invoke not so: all sinks too fast already.

Hugh. It will be found again in mine host's box. [The dice are thrown.

Jack. In still, two thieves and choose thy fellow.

Steph. Take the miller.

Jack. Have at them, i' faith. [Throws.

Hugh. For a thief, I'll warrant you; who'll you have next?

Jack. Two quatres and a trey.

Steph. I hope we shall have good cheer, when two caters and a tray go to the market.[68]

Enter Host.

Host. So all's whist; they play upon the still pipes now; the bull-beggar[69] comes when I show my head. Silence is a virtue, and I have made 'em virtuous. Let 'em play still till they be penniless; pawn till they be naked; so they be quiet, welcome and welcome. (A noise above at cards.) How now! how now! my roaring Tamberlain? take heed, the Soldan comes: and 'twere not for profit, who would live amongst such bears? Why, Ursa Major, I say, what, in Capite Draconis? is there no hope to reclaim you? shall I never live in quiet for you?

Dick. Good mine host, still 'em; civil gamesters cannot play for 'em.

Host. I come amongst you, you maledictious slaves! I'll utter you all; some I'll take ready money for, and lay up the rest in the stocks: look to my box, I say!

Steph. Your box is like your belly, mine host: it draws all. Now for a suit of apparel. [Throws the dice.

Jack. At whose suit, I pray? You're out again with the threes.

Steph. Foot! I think my father threw three when I was begotten: pox on't! I know now why I am so haunted with threes.

Jack. Why, I prythee?

Steph. I met the third part of a knave as I came.

Jack. The third part of a knave? 'sfoot! what thing's that?

Steph. Why, a serjeant's yeoman, man; the supervisor himself is but a whole one, and he shares but a groat in the shilling with him.

Dick. That's but the third part indeed: but goes he no further?

Steph. No, he rests there.

Hugh. Come, let's give o'er.

Steph. I thank you, sir, and so much a loser? there's but the waistband of my suit left:[70] now, sweet bones!

Hugh. Twelve at all. [Throws.

Steph. Soft, this die is false.

Hugh. False? you do him wrong, sir; he's true to his master.

Steph. Fullam!

Dick. I'll be hanged, then! where's Putney, then, I pray you?[71]

Steph. 'Tis false, and I'll have my money again.

Hugh. You shall have cold iron with your silver, then.

Steph. Ay, have at you, sir!

Enter Host and Young Foster.

Host. I think he's here, sir.

[They draw their swords and fight. Young Foster assists his uncle and the host, and the cheats are beaten. Whilst they are fighting, the bowlers enter and steal away their cloaks.

Rob. I am sure he's now, sir.

Hugh. Hold! hold! an' you be gentlemen, hold!

Rob. Get you gone, varlets, or there's hold to be taken!

Host. Nay, sweet sir, no bloodshed in my house; I am lord of misrule; pray you, put up, sir.

Omnes. 'Sfoot! mine host, where are our cloaks?

Host. Why, this is quarrelling: make after in time: some of your own crew, to try the weight, has lifted them: look out, I say.

Jack. There will ever be thieves in a dicing house till thou be'st hanged, I'll warrant thee. [Exit.

Steph. Mine host, my cloak was lined through with orange-tawny velvet.

Host. How, your cloak? I ne'er knew thee worth one.

Steph. You're a company of coneycatching rascals: is this a suit to walk without a cloak in?

Rob. Uncle, is this the reformation that you promised me?

Steph. Coz, shall I tell thee the truth? I had diminished but sixpence of the forty shillings; by chance meeting with a friend, I went to a tailor, bargained for a suit: it came to full forty: I tendered my thirty-nine and a half, and (do you think) the scabby-wristed rascal would [not] trust me for sixpence!

Rob. Your credit is the better, uncle.

Steph. Pox on him! if the tailor had been a man, I had had a fair suit on my back: so venturing for the other tester——

Rob. You lost the whole bedstead.[72]

Steph. But after this day, I protest, coz, you shall never see me handle those bones again; this day I break up school: if ever you call me unthrift after this day, you do me wrong.

Rob. I should be glad to wrong you so, uncle.

Steph. And what says your father yet, coz?

Rob. I'll tell you that in your ear.

Enter Mistress Foster, Widow, and Clown.

Mrs Fos. Nay, I pray you, friend, bear me company a little this way; for into this dicing-house I saw my good son-in-law enter, and 'tis odds but he meets his uncle here.

Wid. You cannot tire me, gossip, in your company; 'tis the best affliction I have to see you impatient.

Mrs Fos. Ay, ay, you may make mirth of my sorrow.

Clown. We have hunted well, mistress; do you not see the hare's in sight?

Mrs Fos. Did not I tell you so? ay, ay, there's good counsel between you; the one would go afoot to hell, the other the horseway.

Rob. Mother, I am sorry you have trod this path.
Mrs Fos. Mother? hang thee, wretch! I bore thee not;
 But many afflictions I have borne for thee:
 Wert thou mine own, I'd see thee stretch'd (a handful),
 And put thee a coffin into the cart
 Ere thou shouldst vex me thus.
Rob. Were I your own,
 You could not use me worse than you do.
Mrs Fos. I'll make thy father turn thee out for ever,
 Or else I'll make him wish him in his grave.
 You'll witness with me, gossip, where I've found him.
Clown. Nay, I'll be sworn upon a book of calico for that.
Rob. It shall not need; I'll not deny that I was with my uncle.
Mrs Fos. And that shall disinherit thee, if thy father
 Be an honest man: thou hadst been better
 To have been born a viper, and eat thy way
 Through thy mother's womb into the world,
 Than to tempt my displeasure.
Steph. Thou liest, Xantippe! it had been better
 Thou'dst been press'd to death under two Irish rugs,
 Than to ride honest Socrates, thy husband, thus,
 And abuse his honest child.
Mrs Fos. Out, raggamuffin? dost thou talk? I shall see thee
 In Ludgate again shortly.

Steph. Thou liest again: 'twill be at Moorgate, beldam, where I shall see thee in the ditch dancing in a cucking-stool.[73]

Mrs Fos. I'll see thee hanged first.

Steph. Thou liest again.

Clown. Nay, sir, you do wrong to give a woman so many lies: she had rather have had twice so many standings than one lie.

Mrs Fos. I'll lie with him, I'll warrant him.

Steph. You'll be a whore, then.

Clown. Little less, I promise you, if you lie with him.
Steph. If you complain upon mine honest coz,
 And that his father be offended with him,
 The next time I meet thee, though it be i' the street,
 I'll dance i' th' dirt upon thy velvet cap;
 Nay, worse, I'll stain thy ruff; nay, worse than that,
 I'll do thus. [Holds a wisp.[74]
Mrs Fos. O my heart; gossip, do you see this? Was ever
 Woman thus abus'd?
Wid. Methinks 'tis good sport, i' faith.
Mrs Fos. Ay, I am well recompens'd to complain to you?
 Had you such a kindred——
Wid. I would rejoice in't, gossip.

Mrs Fos. Do so; choose here then. O my heart! but I'll do your errand! O that my nails were not pared! but I'll do your errand! Will you go, gossip?

Wid. No, I'll stay awhile, and tell 'em out with patience.

Mrs Fos. I cannot hold a joint still! Dost wisp me, thou tatterdemalion? I'll do your errands! if I have a husband. O that I could spit wild-fire! My heart! O my heart! if it does not go pantle, pantle, pantle in my belly, I am no honest woman: but I'll do your errands!

[Exit Mistress Foster.

Rob. Kind gentlewoman, you have some patience.

Wid. I have too much, sir.

Rob. You may do a good office, and make yourself a peaceful moderator betwixt me and my angry father, whom his wife hath moved to spleen against me.

Wid. Sir, I do not disallow the kindness
 Your consanguinity renders; I would not teach
 You otherwise: I'd speak with your uncle, sir,
 If you'll give me leave.

Clown. [To Robert.] You may talk with me, sir, in the meantime. [Exit Robert and Clown.

Steph. With me would you talk, gentlewoman?

Wid. Yes, sir, with you: you are a brave unthrift.

Steph. Not very brave neither, yet I make a shift.

Wid. When you have a clean shirt.

Steph. I'll be no pupil to a woman. Leave your discipline.

Wid. Nay, pray you, hear me, sir, I cannot chide; I'll but give you good counsel: 'tis not a good Course that you run.

Steph. Yet I must run to th' end of it.

Wid. I would teach you a better, if you'd stay where you are.

Steph. I would stay where I am, if I had any money.

Wid. In the dicing-house?

Steph. I think so too; I have played at passage all this while, now I'd go to hazard.

Wid. Dost thou want money? Thou art worthy to be tattered! Hast thou no wit, now thy money's gone?

Steph. 'Tis all the portion I have. I have nothing to maintain me but my wit; my money is too little, I'm sure.

Wid. I cannot believe thy wit's more than thy money—a fellow so well-limbed, so able to do good service, and want?

Steph. Why, mistress, my shoulders were not made for a frock and a basket, nor a coal-sack; no, nor my hands to turn a trencher at a table's side.

Wid. I like that resolution well; but how comes it then that thy wit leaves thy body unfurnished? Thou art very poor?

Steph. The fortune of the dice, you see.

Wid. They are the only wizards, I confess,
 The only fortune-tellers; but he that goes
 To seek his fortune from them must never hope
 To have a good destiny allotted him.
 Yet it is not the course that I dislike in thee,
 But that thou canst not supply that course,
 And outcross them that cross thee; were I as thou art—

Steph. You'd be as beggarly as I am.

Wid. I'll be hanged first.

Steph. Nay, you must be well hanged ere you can be as I am.

Wid. So, sir: I conceit you. Were I as well hanged, then, as you could imagine, I would tell some rich widow such a tale in her ear—

Steph. Ha! some rich widow? By this penniless pocket, I think 'twere not the worst way.

Wid. I'd be ashamed to take such a fruitless oath. I say, seek me out some rich widow; promise her fair—she's apt to believe a young man. Marry her, and let her estate fly. No matter: 'tis charity. Twenty to one some rich miser raked it together. This is none of Hercules' labours.

Steph. Ha? Let me recount these articles: seek her out; promise her fair; marry her; let her estate fly. But where should I find her?

Wid. The easiest of all. Why, man, they are more common than tavern-bushes; two fairs might be furnished every week in London with 'em, though no foreigners came in, if the charter were granted once: nay, 'tis thought, if the horsemarket be removed, that Smithfield shall be so employed; and then, I'll warrant you, 'twill be as well furnished with widows as 'twas with sows, cows, and old trotting jades before.

Steph. 'Sfoot! if it were, I would be a chapman; I'd see for my pleasure, and buy for my love, for money I have none.

Wid. Thou shalt not stay the market, if thou'lt be ruled. I'll find thee out a widow, and help in some of the rest too, if thou'lt but promise me the last, but to let her estate fly; for she's one I love not, and I'd be glad to see that revenge on her.

Steph. Spend her estate? were't five aldermen's. I'll put you in security for that; 'sfoot! all my neighbours shall be bound for me; nay, my kind sister-in-law shall pass her word for that.

Wid. Only this I'll enjoin you: to be matrimonially honest to her for your own health's sake. All other injuries shall be blessings to her.

Steph. I'll bless her, then; I ever drank so much, that I was never great feeder. Give me drink and my pleasure, and a little flesh serves my turn.

Wid. I'll show thee the party. What sayest thou to myself?

Steph. Yourself, gentlewoman? I would it were no worse. I have heard you reputed a rich widow.

Wid. I have a lease of thousands at least, sir.

Steph. I'll let out your leases for you, if you'll allow me the power, I'll warrant you.

Wid. That's my hope, sir; but you must be honest withal.

Steph. I'll be honest with some; if I can be honest with all, I will too.

Wid. Give me thy hand; go home with me, I'll give thee better clothes; and, as I like thee then, we'll go further; we may chance make a blind bargain of it.

Steph. I can make no blind bargain, unless I be in your bed, widow.

Wid. No, I bar that, sir; let's begin honestly, howe'er we end: marry, for the waste of my estate, spare it not; do thy worst.

Steph. I'll do bad enough, fear it not.

Wid. Come, will you walk, sir?

Steph. No, widow, I'll stand to no hazard of blind bargains; either promise me marriage, and give me earnest in a handfast, or I'll not budge a foot.

Wid. No, sir? are you grown so stout already?

Steph. I'll grow stouter when I'm married.

Wid. I hope thou'lt vex me.

Steph. I'll give you cause, I'll warrant you.

Wid. I shall rail and curse thee, I hope; yet I'd not have thee give over neither; for I would be vexed. Here's my hand! I am thine, thou art mine: I'll have thee with all faults.

Steph. You shall have one with some, an' you have me.

Enter Robert and Clown.

Wid. Here's witness[es]. [To Robert.] Come hither, sir—cousin I must call you shortly; and you, sirrah, be witness to this match; here's man and wife.

Rob. I joy at mine uncle's happiness, widow.

Clown. I do forbid the banns: alas! poor shag-rag, my mistress does but gull him. [To Stephen.] You may imagine it to be twelfth-day at night, and the bean found in the corner of your cake, but 'tis not worth a vetch, I'll assure you[75].

Wid. You'll let me dispose of myself, I hope?

Clown. You love to be merry, mistress: come, come, give him four farthings, and let him go. He'll pray for his good dame, and be drunk. Why, if your blood does itch that way, we'll stand together. [Places himself by the side of Stephen.] How think you? I think here is the sweeter bit; [Pointing to himself] you see this nit[76], and you see this louse! you may crack o' your choice, if you choose here.

Wid. You have put me to my choice, then; see, here I choose: this is my husband; thus I begin the contract. [Kisses Stephen.

Steph. 'Tis sealed; I am thine. Now, coz, fear no black storms: if thy father thunder, come to me for shelter.

Wid. His word is now a deed, sir.

Rob. I thank you both. Uncle, what my joy conceives, I cannot utter yet.

Clown. I will make black Monday of this! ere I suffer this disgrace, the kennel shall run with blood and rags.

Rob. Sir, I am your opposite.

Clown. I have nothing to say to you, sir; I aim at your uncle.

Rob. He has no weapon.

Clown. That's all one, I'll take him as I find him.

Wid. I have taken him so before you, sir: will you be quiet?

Steph. Thou shalt take me so too, Hodge, for I'll be thy fellow, though thy mistress's husband. Give me thy hand.

[Exeunt Widow, Stephen, and Robert.