Pis. Mouche, hear you: stir betimes to-morrow,
For then I mean your scholars shall be wed.
What news, what news, man, that you look so sad?
Moore. He brings me word my wife is new fall'n sick,
And that my daughter cannot come to-night;
Or if she does, it will be very late.
Pis. Believe me, I am then more sorry for it.
But for your daughter, come she soon or late,
Some of us will be up to let her in,
For here be three mean not to sleep to-night.
Well, you must be gone: commend me to your wife.
Take heed how you go down: the stairs are bad.
Bring here a light.
Moore. 'Tis well, I thank you, sir. [Exit.
Pis. Good night, Master Moore: farewell, honest friend.
Come, come—to bed, to bed: 'tis nine and past.
Do not stand prating here to make me fetch you,
But get you to your chambers. [Exit Pisaro.
Anth. By'r Lady, here's short work! hark you, girls,
Will you to-morrow marry with the strangers?
Mar. I'faith, sir, no. I'll first leap out at window,
Before Marina marry with a stranger.
Anth. Yes, but your father swears you shall have one.
Math. Yes, but his daughters swear they shall have none.
These whoreson cannibals, these Philistines,
These tango-mongoes shall not rule o'er me.
I'll have my will and Ned, or I'll have none.
Anth. How will you get him? how will you get him?
I know no other way except it be this,
That when your father's in his soundest sleep,
You ope the door, and run away with them.