W. Small. Why, this came cleanly off,
Give me the chain, you little cockatrice;
Why, this was luck; 'foot! four hundred crowns
Got at a clap! hold still your own, you whore,
And we shall thrive.
Beard. 'Twas bravely fetch'd about.
W. Small. Ay, when will your nose and beard perform as much?
Fran. I am glad he is gone; he put me to the blush
When he did ask me of rich Sommerfield's death.
W. Small. And took not I my cue?[354] was't not good?
Did I not bring you off, you arrant drab,
Without a counter-buff?[355] look who comes here—
[Sings.] And three merry men, and three merry men,
And three merry men be we-a.[356]
Enter Boutcher and Constantia.
Bout. Still in this vein? I have done you service;
The lawyer's house will give you entertainment,
Bountiful and free.
W. Small. O my second self!
Come, let me buss thy beard, we are all made!
Why art so melancholy, dost want money?
Look, here's gold, and as we pass along,
I'll tell thee how I got it: not a word,
But that she's Sommerfield's heir; my brother
Swallows it with more ease than a Dutchman
Does flap-dragons: he comes; now to my lawyers.
Enter Thomas Small-Shanks.
Kiss my wife, good brother; she is a wench
Was born to make us all.