Enter William Small-Shanks, Frances, Beard, booted.
H' has got rich Sommerfield's heir,
W. Small. Come, wench of gold!
For thou shalt get me gold, besides odd ends
Of silver: we'll purchase house and land
By thy bare gettings, wench, by thy bare gettings.
How say'st, Lieutenant Beard; does she not look
Like a wench newly stole from a window?
Beard. Exceeding well she carries it, by Jove;
And if she can forbear her rampant tricks,
And but hold close a while, 'twill take, by Mars.
Fran. How now, you slave? my rampant tricks, you rogue!
Nay, fear not me: my only fear is still,
Thy filthy face betrays us; for all men know,
Thy nose stands compass like a bow,
Which is three quarters drawn; thy head
Which is with greasy hair o'erspread,
And being uncurl'd and black as coal,
Doth show some scullion in a hole
Begot thee on a gipsy, or
Thy mother was some collier's whore:
My rampant tricks, you rogue! thou'lt be descried,
Before our plot be ended.
W. Small. What should descry him,
Unless it be his nose? and as for that,
Thou may'st protest he was thy father's butler,
And for thy love is likewise run away.
Nay, sweet lieutenant, now forbear to puff,
And let the bristles of thy beard grow downward:
Reverence my punk, and pandarise a little,
There's many of thy rank that do profess it,
Yet hold it no disparagement.
Beard. I shall do
What fits an honest man.
W. Small. Why, that's enough:
'Foot, my father and the goose my brother:—
Back you two.—
Beard. Back.
[Enter William and Oliver Small-Shanks.]