Ma. Open the doors before him; let him vanish:
Now, let him come again, I'll use him kinder.
How now Wench?
Moor. 'Pray lye here your self next, Mistress,
And entertain your sweet-heart.
Ma. What said he to thee?
Moor. I had a soft Bed, and I slept out all
But his kind farewel: ye may bake me now,
For o' my conscience, he has made me Venison.
Ma. Alas poor Kate: I'll give thee a new Petticoat.
Dor. And I a Wastecoat, wench.
Ma. Draw in the Bed, Maids,
And see it made again; put fresh sheets on too,
For Doll and I; come Wench, let's laugh an hour now.
To morrow, early, will we see young Cellide,
They say she has taken a Sanctuary; Love and they
Are thick sown, but come up so full of thistles.
Dor. They must needs, Mall, for 'tis a pricking age grown,
Prithee to bed, for I am monstrous sleepy.
Mary. A match, but art not thou thy Brother?
Dor. I would I were, Wench,
You should hear further.