Lov. Spare your thanks, good landlady; for the truth is, they came too late, the place is gone; and so is yours, Will; but you shall have two hundred pounds for one, if that will satisfy you.
Fran. This is bitter news, as they say.
Lov. Cheer up thy wife, Will. Where are the fiddles? A dance should do it.
Bib. I'll run and call them.
Isa. I have found out that, will comfort her: Henceforward I christen her by the name of Madam Bibber.
All. A Madam Bibber, a Madam Bibber!
Fran. Why, I thank you, sweet gentlemen and ladies; this is a cordial to my drooping spirits: I confess I was a little eclipsed; but I'll cheer up with abundance of love, as they say. Strike up, fiddles.
Lov. That's a good wench.
DANCE.
Trice. This music and a little nod has recovered me. I'll in, and provide for the sack posset.