Fran. You have been so familiar with her, you have forgot the times: but did you never come in half fuddled, and then in a kind humour— cœtera quis nescit?
Shal. Indeed I was wont to serve my mother's maids so, when I came half foxed, as you said, and then next morning I should laugh to myself.
Frank. Why, there it goes; I thought to have chid you, son Shallow; I knew what you had done; 'tis too apparent: I would not have people take notice of it; pray God she hide her great belly, as she goes to church to-day.
Shal. Why, father, is she with child?
Frank. As if you knew not that! fie, fie! leave your dissembling now.
Shal. Sure, it cannot be mine.
Frank. How's this; you would not make my daughter a whore, would you? This is but to try if you can stir my choler: you wits have strange tricks, do things over night when you are merry, and then deny 'em. But stay, here she comes alone; step aside, she shall not see us.
[They step aside.
Luce. Ah, my dear Shallow, thou need'st not have made
Such haste, my heart thou know'st was firm enough
To thee; but I may blame my own fond love,
That could not deny thee.
Shal. She's with child indeed; it swells.