Up with some merry noise,[81] sirs, to bring home the bride!
R. Roister. Gog's arms, knave, art thou mad? I tell thee thou art wide.
M. Merry. Then, ye intend by night to have her home brought.
R. Roister. I tell thee, no.
M. Merry. How then?
R. Roister. 'Tis neither meant ne thought.
M. Merry. What shall we then do with her?
R. Roister. Ah, foolish harebrain,
This is not she.
M. Merry. No, is [not]. Why, then, unsaid again!