Bout. Or a stationer—they turn them over too,
But not as you do, gentle Master Throat.
And what? the law speaks profit, does it not?
Throat. Faith, some bad angels haunt us now and then;
But what brought you hither?
Bout. Why, these small legs?
Throat. You are conceited, sir.
Bout. I am in law,
But let that go, and tell me how you do:
How does Will Small-shanks and his lovely bride?
Throat. In troth, you make me blush; I should have ask'd
His health of you; but 'tis not yet too late.
Bout. Nay, good Sir Throat,[348] forbear your quillets[349] now.
Throat. By heaven, I deal most plain! I saw him not,
Since last I took his mortgage.
Bout. Sir, be not nice—
Yet I must needs herein commend your love—
To let me see him; for (know) I know him wed,
And that he stole away Sommerfield's heir.
Therefore suspect me not: I am his friend.
Throat. How! wed to rich Sommerfield's only heir!
Is old Sommerfield dead?