W. Small. He shall do it, boy.
Enter Sir Oliver and fiddlers.
He shall do it, go fetch her, boy. Foot, my father.
[Exit Constantia.
Stand to't now, old wench, stand to't now.
Oliver. Now fresh and youthful as the month of May,
I'll bid my bride good-morrow. Musicians, on:
Lightly, lightly; and by my knighthood-spurs,
This year you shall have my protection,
And yet not buy your livery coat yourselves.
Good morrow, bride, fresh[441] as the month of May,
I come to kiss thee on thy wedding-day.
W. Small. Saving your tale, sir, I'll show you how
April showers bring May flowers,
So merrily sings the cuckoo.
The truth is, I have laid my knife aboard.
The widow, sir, is wedded.
Oliver. Ha!
W. Small. Bedded.
Oliver. Ha!