Heigh. He tells you true; Laurentia is my wife.
Who, knowing that her sisters must be wed,
Presuming also that you'll bid her welcome,
Are come to bear them company to church.
Har. You come too late: the marriage rites are done:
Yet welcome twenty-fold unto the feast.
How say you, sirs, did I not tell you true,
These wenches would have us, and none of you?
Laur. I cannot say for these; but on my life
This loves a cushion better than a wife.
Mar. And reason, too; that cushion fell out right,
Else hard had been his lodging all last night.
Bal. Master Pisaro, why stand you speechless thus?
Pis. Anger and extreme grief enforceth me.
Pray, sir, who bad you meet me at the Tower?
Bal. Who, sir? your man, sir—Mouche—here he is.
Anth. Who? I, sir? mean you me? you are a jesting man.
Pis. Thou art a villain, a dissembling wretch,
Worser than Anthony, whom I kept last!
Fetch me an officer! I'll hamper you,
And make you sing at Bridewell for this trick:
For well he hath deserv'd it, that would swear
He went not forth a-doors at my appointment.
Anth. So swear I still: I went not forth to-day.