Boy. This title, and I ha' done, Sir;
I never can confess, I ha' that spell on me;
And such rare modesties before a Magistrate,
Such innocence to catch a Judge, such ignorance.
Lur. I'll learn of thee, thou art mine own, come boy,
I'll give thee action presently.
Boy. Have at you.
Lur. What must I call thee?
Boy. Snap, Sir.
Lur. 'Tis most natural,
A name born to thee, sure thou art a Fairy,
Shew but thy skill, and I shall make thee happy.
Enter Lady, Nurse, Mistriss, Newlove, Tobie.
La. Where be these knaves? who strues up all the liveries.
Is the Bride's bed made?
Tob. Yes Madam and a Bell
Hung under it artificially.
La. Out knave, out,
Must we have 'larms now?