Bub. Then I perceive you mean to wear it on your thumb.
Well, the time is come, sweet Joyce; the time is come.
Joyce. What to do, sir?
Bub. For me to tickle thy Tu quoque; to do the act
Of our forefathers: therefore prepare, provide,
To-morrow morn to meet me as my bride.
[Exit.
Joyce. I'll meet thee like a ghost first.
Gert. How now, what matter have you fished out of that fool?
Joyce. Matter as poisoning as corruption,
That will without some antidote strike home,
Like blue infection, to the very heart.
W. Rash. As how, for God's sake?
Joyce. To-morrow is the appointed wedding-day.
Gert. The day of doom, it is?