Hans. Oh, how I surfeit with excess of joy,
Made happy by thy rich perfection!
But since thou pay’st sweet interest to my hopes,
Redoubling love on love, let me once more
Like to a bold-faced debtor crave of thee,
This night to steal abroad, and at Eyre’s house,
Who now by death of certain aldermen
Is mayor of London, and my master once,
Meet thou thy Lacy, where in spite of change,
Your father’s anger, and mine uncle’s hate,
Our happy nuptials will we consummate.
Enter Sybil.
Sybil. Oh God, what will you do, mistress? Shift for yourself, your father is at hand! He’s coming, he’s coming! Master Lacy, hide yourself in my mistress! For God’s sake, shift for yourselves!
Hans. Your hither come, sweet Rose—what shall I do? Where shall I hide me? How shall I escape?
Rose. A man, and want wit in extremity? Come, come, be Hans still, play the shoemaker, Pull on my shoe.
Enter the Lord Mayor.
Hans. Mass, and that’s well remembered.
Sybil. Here comes your father.
Hans. Forware, metresse, ’tis un good skow, it sal vel dute, or ye sal neit betallen.[88]