PHIL. Frank, thy mother!
FRAN. 'Sowns, where? a plague upon it!
I think the devil is set to cross this match.
MRS GOUR. This is the house, Dick Coomes, and yonder's [th'] light:
Let us go near. How now? methinks I see
My son stand hand in hand with Barnes his daughter.
Why, how now, sirrah? is this time of night
For you to be abroad? what have we here?
I hope that love hath not thus coupled you.
FRAN. Love, by my troth, mother, love: she loves me,
And I love her; then we must needs agree.
MRS BAR. Ay, but I'll keep her sure enough from thee.
MRS GOUR. It shall not need, I'll keep him safe enough;
Be sure he shall not graft in such a stock.
MRS BAR. What stock, forsooth? as good a stock as thine:
I do not mean that he shall graft in mine.
MRS GOUR. Nor shall he, mistress. Hark, boy; th'art but mad
To love the branch that hath a root so bad.
FRAN. Then, mother, I will graft a pippin on a crab.
MRS GOUR. It will not prove well.