Hem. Will the Sun shine again?

Hub. The way to get ’em.

Hem. Propound it, and it shall be done.

Hub. No sleight; (For they are Devilish crafty, it concerns ’em,) Nor reconcilement, (for they dare not trust neither) Must doe this trick.

Hem. By force?

Hub. I, that must doe it. 
And with the person of the Earl himself,
Authority (and mighty) must come on ’em: 
Or else in vain:  and thus I would have ye do it. 
To morrow-night be here:  a hundred men will bear ’em,
(So he be there, for he’s both wise and valiant,
And with his terrour will strike dead their forces)
The hour be twelve a Clock, now for a guide
To draw ye without danger on these persons,
The woods being thick, and hard to hit, my self
With some few with me, made unto our purpose,
Beyond the wood, upon the plain, will wait ye
By the great Oak.

Hem. I know it:  keep thy faith huntsman, And such a showr of wealth—­

Hub. I warrant ye:  Miss nothing that I tell ye.

Hem. No.

Hub. Farewel; You have your liberty, now use it wisely; And keep your hour, goe closer about the wood there, For fear they spy you.

Hem. Well.

Hub. And bring no noise with ye. [Exit.

Hem. All shall be done to th’ purpose:  farewel hunts-man.

Enter Gerrard, Higgen, Prig, Ginks, Snap, Ferret.

Ger. Now, what’s the news in town?

Ginks. No news, but joy Sir; Every man wooing of the noble Merchant, Who has his hearty commendations to ye.

Fer. Yes this is news, this night he’s to be married.

Ginks. By th’ mass that’s true, he marrys Vandunks Daughter, The dainty black-ey’d bell.

Hig. I would my clapper Hung in his baldrick, a what a peal could I Ring?

Ger. Married?

Ginks. ’Tis very true Sir, O the pyes, The piping-hot mince-pyes!

Prig. O the Plum-pottage!

Hig. For one leg of a goose now would I venture a limb boys,
I love a fat goose, as I love allegiance,
And------upon the Boors, too well they know it,
And therefore starve their poultry.

Ger. To be married To Vandunks Daughter?

Hig. O this [pretious] Merchant: 
What sport he will have! but hark you brother Prig,
Shall we do nothing in the foresaid wedding? 
There’s mony to be got, and meat I take it,
What think ye of a morise?

Prig. No, by no means,
That goes no further than the street, there leaves us,
Now we must think of something that must draw us
Into the bowels of it, into th’ buttery,
Into the Kitchin, into the Cellar, something
That that old drunken Burgo-master loves,
What think ye of a wassel?