Enter Miss Pickle and Margery.
Mar. And so I was telling your ladyship, poor little master does so take it to heart, and so weep and wail, it almost makes me cry to hear him.
Miss P. Well, well, since he begins already to repent, his punishment shall be but short; have you brought your boy with you?
Mar. Aye, have I—poor Tommy, he came from a-board a ship but now, and is so grown, and altered—sure enough he believes every word I have told him, as your honour ordered me, and I warrant, is so sheepish and shamefaced—but here comes my master—he has heard it all already.
Enter Pickle.
But, my lady—shall I fetch my poor Tommy to you, he’s waiting without.
Pick. What, that ill-looking young rascal in the hall?—he with the jacket and trowsers.
Mar. Ay, your honour!—what, then, you have seen him.
Pick. Seen him!—ay, and felt him too.—The booby met me bolt at the corner, run his cursed carotty poll full in my face, and has loosened half the teeth in my head, I believe.