Bout. I will not.
W. Small. With that money
I will redeem my forfeit land, and wed
My cockatrice to a man of worship—
To a man of worship, by this light!
Bout. But how?
W. Small. Thus: in Ram-Alley lies a fellow, by name
Throat: one that professeth law, but indeed
Has neither law nor conscience; a fellow
That never saw the bar, but when his life
Was call'd in question for a cosenage.
The rogue is rich; to him go you, tell him
That rich Sir John Sommerfield—
Con. How's that? [Aside.
W. Small. Is lately dead, and that my hopes stand fair
To get his only daughter. If I speed,[328]
And have but means to steal away the wench,
Tell him I reckon him my chiefest friend
To entertain us, till our nuptial rites
May be accomplish'd: and could you but procure
My elder brother meet me on the way,
And but associate me unto his house,
'Twere hit, i' faith; I'd give my cunning Throat
An honest slit for all his tricks in law.
Bout. Why this shall be perform'd; take; there's my store.
To friends all things are common.
W. Small. Then at the court
There are none foes, for all things there are common. [Aside.
Bout. I will as carefully perform thy wish,
As if my fortunes lay upon th' attempt.
W. Small. When shall I hear from you?