Const.  We are compeld to doe it, mine host; a Gentleman is robd last night, & we are to search every privy corner.

Host.  Mine host is true Mettall, a man of reputation, a true Holefernes, he loves juice of grapes, and welcom, maister Constable.
          
                                                     [Exit.

Acut. Graccus, how likst thou this?

Grac.  Excellent, for now must he needes fall into Constables hands, and if he have any grace, twil appear in his face, when he shall be carried through the streete in a white sheet; twill be a good penance for his fault.

Hostis.  Now fortune favour that my husband find him not.

Cittie wife.  Heele be horne mad & never able to indure it:  why, woman, if he had but as much man in him as a Maribone, heele take the burthen uppon his own necke and never discover you.

Hostis.  Alas, heere they come, lets away, Gossip.
          
                                             [Exeunt.

Phy. Fortune,[313] my foe, why doost, &c.

Acut.  Oh fye, thats bitter prethe goe comfort him.

Grac.  Faith he should be innocent by his garment; Signior, I grieve for this, but if I can help, looke for it.

Phy.  I thanke ye, sir.

Const.  We must contaminate our office, pray regard us as little as ye can. [Exit.

Accut.  Me thinkes this shold put him quite out of tune now, so let him goe now to mine Host; theres he and hee, and hee,

Theres shee, and she, ile have a bout with all: 
And critiques honneys sweetest mixt with gal.

[Exeunt.

[Scene 2.]

Enter Host, Cornutus.

Host.  Goe to, there’s knaves in my house!  I know of no Varlets, I have an eye has his sence, a brain that can reach, I have bene cald Polititian, my wife is my wife.  I am her top, i’me her head:  if mine Host say the word, the Mouse[314] shall be dun.

Corn.  Not so my sweet Host, mum, mum, no words against your wife; he that meanes to live quiet, to sleep in cleane sheetes, a Pillowe under his head, his dyet drest cleanely, mum, mum, no words against his wife.

Host.  Thar’t a foole, thar’t a foole, bee rulde by mine host, shew thy self a brave man, of the true seede of Troy, a gallant Agamemnon; tha’st a shrew to thy wife, if shee crosse thy brave humors, kicke thy heele at her huckle[315] bone.

    Enter Accutus.

Acut.  Gentles, most happily encountered, how good hap hath turnd two labours into one!  I was addrest to both, and at once I have met both, sure I must intreate that you must not deny.

Host.  Say on, my sweete bullie, mine Host will attend thee; speake roundly to the purpose, and welcome, my bullie.