GRIPE.
Away, fool; get thee in, I say.
WILL CRICKET.
Into the buttery, you mean?
GRIPE.
I prythee, do.
WILL CRICKET.
I'll make your hogshead of sack rue that word. [Aside. Exit.]
GRIPE. Neighbour Plod-all, I sent a letter to you by Master Churms; how like you of the motion?
PLOD-ALL. Marry, I like well of the motion. My son, I tell you, is e'en all the stay I have, and all my care is to have him take one that hath something, for, as the world goes now, if they have nothing, they may beg. But I doubt he's too simple for your daughter; for I have brought him up hardly, with brown bread, fat bacon, puddings, and souse; and, by'r Lady, we think it good fare too.
GRIPE. Tush, man! I care not for that. You ha' no more children; you'll make him your heir, and give him your lands, will you not?
PLOD-ALL.
Yes; he's e'en all I have; I have nobody else to bestow it upon.
GRIPE.
You say well.
Enter WILL CRICKET and a boy, with wine and a napkin.