Mary. Speak softly,
He is, and there he goes.
Thom. Good night, good night, Wench.
[A Bed discovered with a Black-moore in it.
Maid. As softly as you can. [Exit.
Thom. I'll play the mouse, Nan,
How close the little thief lies!
Mary. How he itches!
Dor. What would you give now to be there, and I
At home, Mall?
Mary. Peace for shame.
Thom. In what a figure
The little fool has pull'd it self together!
Anon you will lye straighter;
Ha! there's rare circumstance
Belongs to such a treatise; do ye tumble?
I'll tumble with ye straight, wench: she sleeps soundly,
Full little think'st thou of thy joy that's coming,
The sweet, sweet joy, full little of the kisses,
But those unthought of things come ever happiest.
How soft the Rogue feels! O ye little Villain,
Ye delicate coy Thief, how I shall thrum ye!
Your [']fy away, good servant, as you are a Gentleman.[']