M. Merry. For this lieth upon his preferment indeed.
D. Dough. Oft is he a wooer, but never doth he speed.
M. Merry. But with whom is he now so sadly rounding[77] yond?
D. Dough. With Nobs nicebectur miserere[78] fond.
M. Merry. God be at your wedding: be ye sped already?
I did not suppose that your love was so greedy.
I perceive now ye have chose of devotion;
And joy have ye, lady, of your promotion!
R. Roister. Tush, fool, thou art deceived, this is not she.
M. Merry. Well, mock[79] much of her, and keep her well, I 'vise ye.