PYE. Lady, you must needs take a little pity of him, yfaith, and send him in to your Kitchen fire.
WIDOW. Oh, with all my heart, sir. Nicholas and Frailty, help to bear him in.
NICHOLAS. Bear him in, quatha? pray call out the Maids, I shall ne’er have the heart to doo’t, indeed la.
FRAILTY.
Nor I neither, I cannot abide to handle a Ghost of all men.
CORPORAL.
Sblood, let me see: where was I drunk last night, heh—
WIDOW.
Oh, shall I bid you once again take him away?
FRAILTY.
Why, we’re as fearful as you, I warrant you—oh—
WIDOW. Away, villains; bid the Maids make him a Cawdle presently to settle his brain,—or a Posset of Sack; quickly, quickly.
[Exeunt Frailty and Nicholas, pushing in the corpses.]
SHERIFF.
Sir, what so ere you are, I do more then admire you.