Hum. Good night, twenty good nights, and twenty more,
And twenty more good nights: that makes threescore. [Exeunt.
Enter Mistress Merry-thought and her son Michael.
Mist. Mer. Come, Michael, art thou not weary, boy?
Mich. No, forsooth, mother, not I.
Mist. Mer. Where be we now, child?
Mich. Indeed forsooth, mother, I cannot tell, unless we be at Mile End. Is not all the world Mile End, mother?
Mist. Mer. No, Michael, not all the world, boy; but I can assure thee, Michael, Mile End is a goodly matter. There has been a pitched field, my child, between the naughty Spaniels and the Englishmen; and the Spaniels ran away, Michael, and the Englishmen followed. My neighbour Coxstone was there, boy, and killed them all with a birding-piece.
Mich. Mother, forsooth.
Mist. Mer. What says my white boy?