Bout. The case is clear with me.
Omnes. O strange!
Throat. Sir, sir.
This is not true: how liv'd you in the suburbs,
And scap'd so many searches?
W. Small. I answer,
That most constables in our out-parishes
Are bawds themselves, by which we scap'd the searches.
Oliver. This is most strange!
Lady Som. What's become of this woman?
Beard. That know not I. As I was squiring her
Along the street, Master Small-shanks set upon me,
Beat me down, and took away the maid,
Which I suppose was daughter to the widow.
W. Small. He lies; let me be hanged, if he lie not.
Oliver. What confusion is this?
Enter Constable.