Throat. Right worshipful,
I say that William Small-shanks, madman,
Is by a statute made in Octavo
Of Richard Cordelion guilty to the law
Of felony for stealing this lady's heir.
That he stole her, the proof is most pregnant—
He brought her to my house, confessed himself
He made great means to steal her. I lik'd her,
And finding him a novice (truth to tell),
Married her myself, and (as I said),
By a statute Richardi Quarti,
She is my lawful wife.
W. Small. For my client
I say, the wench I brought unto your house
Was not the daughter to rich Sommerfield.
Oliver. What proof of that?
W. Small. This gentleman.
Throat. Tut, tut,
He is a party in the cause. But, sir,
If't were not the daughter to this good widow,
Who was it? answer that.
W. Small. An arrant whore,
Which you have married, and she is run
Away with all your jewels—this is true;
And this Lieutenant Beard can testify:
It was the wench I kept in Hosier Lane.
Beard. What, was it she?
W. Small. The very same.
Jus. Tut. Speak, sirrah Beard, if all he says be true?
Beard. She said she was a punk, a rampant whore,
Which in her time had been the cause of parting
Some fourteen bawds; he kept her in the suburbs.
Yet I do think this wench was not the same.