Bal. Why, arrant liar, wert thou not with me?
Pis. How say you, Master Brown? went he not forth?
Brown. He, or his likeness did, I know not whether.
Pis. What likeness can there be besides himself?
Laur. Myself, forsooth, that took his shape upon me.
I was that Mouche that you sent from home;
And that same Mouche that deceived you,
Effected to possess this gentleman;
Which to attain, I thus beguil'd you all.
Fris. This is excellent; this is as fine as a fiddle! you, Master Heigham, got the wench in Mouche's apparel; now let Mouche put on her apparel, and be married to the Dutchman! How think you, is it not a good vice?
Moore. Master Pisaro, shake off melancholy:
When things are helpless, patience must be used.
Pis. Talk of patience? I'll not bear these wrongs?
Go call down Mat and Mistress Susan Moore,
'Tis well that of all three we have one sure.
Moore. Mistress Susan Moore! who do you mean, sir?
Pis. Whom should I mean, sir, but your daughter?