GRIPE.  Well, that shall not serve his turn; I’ll cross him, I warrant ye.  I am glad I know it.  I have suspected it a great while.  Sophos!  Why, what’s Sophos? a base fellow.  Indeed he has a good wit, and can speak well.  He’s a scholar, forsooth—­one that hath more wit than money—­and I like not that; he may beg, for all that.  Scholars! why, what are scholars without money?

PLOD-ALL. 
Faith, e’en like puddings without suet.

GRIPE.  Come, neighbour, send your son to my house, for he shall be welcome to me, and my daughter shall entertain him kindly.  What?  I can and will rule Lelia.  Come, let’s in; I’ll discharge Sophos from my house presently.

[Exit GRIPE, PLOD-ALL, and CHURMS.

WILL CRICKET.

A horn plague of this money, for it causeth many horns to bud; and for money many men are horned; for when maids are forced to love where they like not, it makes them lie where they should not.  I’ll be hanged, if e’er Mistress Lelia will ha’ Peter Plod-all; I swear by this button-cap (do you mark?), and by the round, sound, and profound contents (do you understand?) of this costly codpiece (being a good proper man, as you see), that I could get her as soon as he myself.  And if I had not a month’s mind in another place, I would have a fling at her, that’s flat; but I must set a good holiday-face on’t, and go a wooing to pretty Peg:  well, I’ll to her, i’ faith, while ’tis in my mind.  But stay; I’ll see how I can woo before I go:  they say use makes perfectness.  Look you now; suppose this were Peg:  now I set my cap o’ the side on this fashion (do ye see?); then say I, sweet honey, honey, sugar-candy Peg.

Whose face more fair than Brock my father’s cow;

        Whose eyes do shine,
        Like bacon-rine;
        Whose lips are blue,
        Of azure hue;

Whose crooked nose down to her chin doth bow.  For, you know, I must begin to commend her beauty, and then I will tell her plainly that I am in love with her over my high shoes; and then I will tell her that I do nothing of nights but sleep, and think on her, and specially of mornings:  and that does make my stomach so rise, that I’ll be sworn I can turn me three or four bowls of porridge over in a morning afore breakfast.

    Enter ROBIN GOODFELLOW.

ROBIN GOODFELLOW. 
How now, sirrah? what make you here, with all that timber in your neck?

WILL CRICKET. 
Timber?  Zounds, I think he be a witch; how knew he this were timber? 
Mass, I’ll speak him fair, and get out on’s company; for I am afraid on
him.

ROBIN GOODFELLOW. 
Speak, man; what, art afraid? what makest here?

WILL CRICKET. 
A poor fellow, sir:  ha’ been drinking two or three pots of ale at an
alehouse, and ha’ lost my way, sir.

ROBIN GOODFELLOW. 
O! nay, then I see, thou art a good fellow:  seest thou not Master
Churms the lawyer to-day?