W. Small. Bless thee, Throat.
Throat. Master Small-shanks, welcome.
W. Small. Welcome, love; kiss this gentle woman, Throat.
Throat. Your worship shall command me.
W. Small. Art not weary?
Bout. Can you blame her, since she has rid so hard?
Throat. You are welcome, gentlemen. Dash!
Dash. Sir.
Throat. A fire in the great chamber quickly.
W. Small. Ay, that's well-said; we are almost weary.
But, Master Throat, if any come to inquire
For me, my brother, or this gentlewoman,
We are not here, nor have you heard of us.