W. Small. Art sure he will be here?
Fran. Most sure.
W. Small. Beard.
Beard. Sir.
W. Small. Bear up the torch, and keep your way apace
Directly to the Savoy.
T. Small. Have you a licence?
Look to that, brother, before you marry,
For fear the parson lose his benefice.
W. Small. Tut, our curate craves no licence; he swears
His living came to him by a miracle.
Bout. How by [a] miracle?
W. Small. Why, he paid nothing for't:
He swears that few be free from simony,
But only Welshmen, and those he says, too,
Are but mountain priests.
Bout. But hang him, fool, he lies:
What's his reason?