L. Mayor. Where is thy mistress? What’s become of her?
Sybil. She’s gone, she’s fled!
L. Mayor. Gone! Whither is she fled?
Sybil. I know not, forsooth; she’s fled out of doors with Hans the shoemaker; I saw them scud, scud, scud, apace, apace!
L. Mayor. Which way? What, John! Where be my men? Which way?
Sybil. I know not, an it please your worship.
L. Mayor. Fled with a shoemaker? Can this be true?
Sybil. Oh Lord, sir, as true as God’s in Heaven.
Lincoln. Her love turned shoemaker? I am glad of this.
L. Mayor. A Fleming butter-box, a shoemaker!
Will she forget her birth, requite my care
With such ingratitude? Scorned she young Hammon
To love a honniken,[90] a needy knave?
Well, let her fly, I’ll not fly after her,
Let her starve, if she will; she’s none of mine.