Plot. How! Friends' consent? that's fit
For none but farmers' sons and milkmaids. You shall not
Debase your judgment. She takes you for a wit,
And you shall match her like one.
Tim. Then I will.
Plot. But no more words to th' gallants.
Tim. Do you think I am a sieve, and cannot hold?
Enter Roseclap.
Rose. Gentlemen, the company are sat.
Tim. It shall be yours.
Plot. Nay, sir, your fortune claims precedency. [Exeunt.
SCENE VII.
Warehouse, Seathrift, Cypher.