W. Small. Retire, sweet lieutenant,
And come not on till I shall wave you on.
O. Small. Is not that he?
T. Small. 'Tis he.
O. Small. But where's the wench![351]
W. Small. It shall be so, I'll cheat him, that's flat.
O. Small. You are well met: know ye me, good sir?
Belike you think I have no eyes, no ears,
No nose to smell, and wind out all your tricks,
Y' have stole Sir Sommerfield's heir: nay, we can find
Your wildest parts, your turnings and returns,
Your traces, squats, the mussers, forms, and holes[352]
You young men use, if once our sagest wits
Be set a-hunting. Are you now crept forth?
Have you hid your head within a suburb-hole
All this while, and are you now crept forth?
W. Small. 'Tis a stark lie.
O. Small. How?
W. Small. Who told you so did lie;
'Foot! a gentleman cannot leave the city,
And keep the suburbs to take a little physic,
But straight some slave will say he hides his head.
I hide my head within a suburb-hole!
I could have holes at court to hide my head,
Were I but so dispos'd.
O. Small. Thou varlet knave,
Th' hast stolen away Sir John Sommerfield's heir;
But never look for countenance from me,
Carry her whither thou wilt.