Gera. Sir, I thank you.
Sir Lionel. But look, here comes one,
That has but lately shook off his shackles.—
How now, sirrah! wherefore come you?
Spend. I come to crave a pardon, sir, of you;
And with hearty and zealous thanks
Unto this worthy lady, that hath given me
More than I e'er could hope for—liberty.
Wid. Be thankful unto heaven and your master:
Nor let your heart grow bigger than your purse,
But live within a limit, lest you burst out
To riot and to misery again:
For then 'twould lose the benefit I mean it.
Sir Lionel. O, you do graciously; 'tis good advice:
Let it take root, sirrah, let it take root.
But come, widow, come and see your chamber:
Nay, your company too, for I must speak with you.
[Exeunt.
Spend. 'Tis bound unto you, sir.
Bub. And I have to talk with you too, Mistress Joyce. Pray, a word.
Joyce. What would you, sir?
Bub. Pray, let me see your hand. The line of your maidenhead is out. Now for your fingers. Upon which finger will you wear your wedding-ring?
Joyce. Upon no finger.