Throat. I now do call her wife, she now is mine,
Seal'd and deliver'd by an honest priest
At Saint Giles's in the Fields.
Beard. God give you joy, sir.
Throat. But where's mad Small-shanks?
Beard. O, hard at hand,
And almost mad with loss of his fair bride;
Let not my lovely mistress be seen;
And see, if you can draw him to compound
For all his title to her: I have serjeants,
Ready to do the feat, when time shall serve.
Throat. Stand you aside, dear love[392]; nay, I will firk
My silly novice, as he was never firk'd,
Since midwives bound his noddle: here they come.
Enter William Small-Shanks, Thomas Small-Shanks, and Boutcher.
W. Small. O Master Throat, unless you speak good news,
My hopes are cross'd, and I undone for ever!
Throat. I never thought you'd come to other end;
Your courses have been always so profane,
Extravagant and base.
W. Small. Nay, good sir, hear:
Did not my love return? came she not hither?
For Jove's love, speak.
Throat. Sir, will you get you gone,
And seek your love elsewhere? for know, my house
Is not to entertain such customers
As you and your comrades.