Throat. Nay, choose.
Enter Frances.
Fran. I can hold no longer; impudent man—
W. Small. My wife! foot! my wife! let me go, serjeants.
Fran. O thou perfidious man! dar'st thou presume
To call her wife, whom thou so much hast wrong'd?
What conquest hast thou got to wrong a maid,
A silly harmless maid? what glory is't,
That thou hast thus deceived a simple virgin,
And brought her from her friends? what honour was't
For thee to make the butler lose his office,
And run away with thee! Your tricks are known;
Didst thou not swear thou shouldst be baronis'd?
And hadst both lands and fortunes, both which thou want'st?
W. Small. Foot, that's not my fault: I would have lands,
If I could get 'em.
Fran. I know your tricks;
And know I now am wife unto this man.
Omnes. How?
Throat. I thank her, sir, she has now vouchsaf'd
To cast herself on me.
Fran. Therefore subscribe;
Take somewhat of him for a full release,
And pray to God to make you an honest man:
If not, I do protest by earth and heaven,
Although I starve, thou never shalt enjoy me.