Hag. Let him alone, we have devised better upon’t.
Pure. And shall he not into the stocks then?
Bri. No, mistress, we’ll have them both to justice Overdo, and let him do over ’em as is fitting: then I, and my gossip Haggise, and my beadle Pocher, are discharged.
Pure. O, I thank you, blessed honest men!
Bri. Nay, never thank us; but thank this madman that comes here! he put it in our heads.
Re-enter TROUBLEALL.
Pure. Is he mad? now heaven increase his madness, and bless it, and thank it.—Sir, your poor handmaid thanks you.
Tro. Have you a warrant? an you have a warrant, shew it.
Pure. Yes, I have a warrant out of the word, to give thanks for removing any scorn intended to the brethren.
[Exeunt all but Troubleall.