Lincoln. Lead home your daughter.
L. Mayor. Take your nephew hence.
Ralph. Hence! Swounds, what mean you? Are you mad? I hope you cannot enforce my wife from me. Where’s Hammon?
L. Mayor. Your wife?
Lincoln. What, Hammon?
Ralph. Yea, my wife; and, therefore, the proudest of you that lays hands on her first, I’ll lay my crutch ’cross his pate.
Firk. To him, lame Ralph! Here’s brave sport!
Ralph. Rose call you her? Why, her name is Jane. Look here else; do you know her now? [Unmasking Jane.
Lincoln. Is this your daughter?
L. Mayor. No, nor this your nephew.
My Lord of Lincoln, we are both abused
By this base, crafty varlet.