W. Small. Now, my virago, 'tis done: all's cock-sure.
I have a priest will mumble up a marriage
Without bell, book, or candle:[369] a nimble slave,
An honest Welshman, that was a tailor,
But now is made a curate.
Beard. Nay, y' are fitted.
Bout. Now, Master Throat.
T. Small. Where's your spirit, sister?
W. Small. What, all amort?[370] what's the matter? do you hear?
Bout. What's the reason of this melancholy?
Throat. By heaven, I know not?
W. Small. Has the gudgeon bit? [Aside.
Fran. He has been nibbling. [Aside.
W. Small. Hold him to it, wench,
And it will hit, by heaven. [Aside.] Why art so sad?
'Foot, wench, we will be married to-night,
We'll sup at th' Mitre, and from thence
My brother and we three will to the Savoy;
Which done, I tell thee, girl, we'll, hand o'er head,
Go to it pell-mell for a maidenhead.
Come, you are lusty: you wenches are like bells,
You give no music till you feel the clapper.
Come, Throat: a torch. We must be gone. [Exit.