W. Small. Is the man mad
Or drunk? Why, Master Throat, know you to whom
You talk so saucily?
Throat. Why, unto you
And to your brother Small-shanks: will you be gone?
Bout. Nay, good sir, hold us not in this suspense;
Answer directly: came not the virgin hither?
Throat. Will you be gone directly? are you mad?
Come you to seek a virgin in Ram-Alley,
So near an inn-of-court, and amongst cooks,
Ale-men, and laundresses? why, are you fools?
W. Small. Sir, leave this firk of law, or, by this light,
I'll give your throat a slit. Came she not hither?
Answer to that point.
Throat. What, have you lost her?
Come, do not gull your friends.
W. Small. By heaven, she's gone,
Unless she be return'd since we last left you.
Throat. Nay, then, I cry you mercy; she came not hither,
As I am an honest man: is't possible,
A maid so lovely fair, so well-demean'd,
Should be took from you? what, you three—
So young, so brave, and valiant gentlemen—
Sure, it cannot be!
T. Small. Afore God, 'tis true.
W. Small. To our perpetual shame, 'tis now too true.