Mary. Run all, and all too little,
O cursed beast that hurt him, run, run, flye,
He will be dead else.
Tho. Oh.
Mary. Good friend go you too.
Fid. Who pays me for my Musick?
Mary. Pox o' your Musick,
There's twelve pence for ye.
Fid. There's two groats again forsooth,
I never take above, and rest ye merry. [Exit.
Ma. A grease pot guild your fidle strings: how do you,
How is my dear?
Tom. Why well I thank ye sweet heart,
Shall we walk in, for now there's none to trouble us?
Ma. Are ye so crafty, Sir? I shall meet with ye,
I knew your trick, and I was willing: my Tom,
Mine own Tom, now to satisfie thee, welcom, welcom,
Welcom my best friend to me, all my dearest.
Tom. Now ye are my noble Mistress: we lose time sweet.