Fris. What say I? Marry, I say, if she lay not here, there was a familiar in her likeness; for I am sure my master and she were so familiar together, that he had almost shot the gout out of his toes' ends to make the wench believe he had one trick of youth in him. Yet now I remember me, she did not lie here; and the reason is, because she doth lie here, and is now abed with Mistress Mathea: witness whereof I have set to my hand and seal, and mean presently to fetch her. [Exit Frisco.
Pis. Do so, Frisco. Gentlemen and friends,
Now shall you see how I am wrong'd by him.
Lay she not here? I think the world's grown wise:
Plain folks, as I, shall not know how to live.
Enter Frisco.
Fris. She comes, she comes! a hall, a hall!
Enter Mathea and Walgrave in woman's attire.
Wal. Nay, blush not, wench; fear not, look cheerfully.
Good morrow, father; good morrow, gentlemen.
Nay, stare not, look you here: no monster I,
But even plain Ned, and here stands Mat my wife.
Know you her, Frenchman? But she knows me better.
Father! pray, father, let me have your blessing,
For I have bless'd you with a goodly son.
'Tis breeding here: i' faith, a jolly boy.
Pis. I am undone! a reprobate, a slave!
A scorn, a laughter, and a jesting-stock!
Give me my child, give me my daughter from you!
Moore. Master Pisaro, 'tis in vain to fret,
And fume, and storm: it little now avails:
These gentlemen have, with your daughters' help,
Outstripp'd you in your subtle enterprises;
And therefore, seeing they are well-descended,
Turn hate to love, and let them have their loves.
Pis. Is it even so? Why, then I see that still,
Do what we can, women will have their will.
Gentlemen, you have outreach'd me now,
Which ne'er before you any yet could do:
You, that I thought should be my sons indeed,
Must be content, since there's no hope to speed:
Others have got what you did think to gain;
And yet, believe me, they have took some pain.
Well, take them: there: and with them God give joy.
And, gentlemen, I do entreat to-morrow,
That you will feast with me for all this sorrow:
Though you are wedded, yet the feast's not made.
Come, let us in, for all the storms are past,
And heaps of joy will follow on as fast.
FINIS.