Nay, mistress Custance.
R. Roister. Alas! thou hittest me still.
Hold!
M. Merry. Save yourself, sir!
R. Roister. Help! out alas! I am slain.
M. Merry. Truce, hold your hands! truce, for a pissing while or twain.[165]
Now, how say you, Custance, for saving of your life,
Will ye yield, and grant to be this gentleman's wife?
C. Custance. Ye told me he loved me; call ye this love?
M. Merry. He loved a while, even like a turtle-dove.