Beard. Water at dock!
A fico for her dock! you'll not be rul'd,
You'll still be obstinate, I'll pawn my fate,
She took along Shoe Lane, and so went home.
W. Small. Home?
Beard. Ay, home; how could she choose but go,
Seeing so many naked tools at once
Drawn in the street?
T. Small. What scurvy luck was this?
W. Small. Come, we will find her, or we'll fire the suburbs.
Put up your tools; let's first along Shoe Lane,
Then straight up Holborn; if we find her not,
We'll thence direct to Throat's; if she be lost,
I am undone, and all your hopes are cross'd. [Exeunt.
Enter Sir Oliver Small-Shanks, Justice Tutchin, Mistress Taffata, Adriana.
O. Small. Widow, I must be short.
Jus. Tut. Sir Oliver,
Will you shame yourself, ha? you must be short!
Why, what a word was that to tell a widow?
O. Small. I meant I must be brief.