R. ROISTER. She looked on me twenty times yesternight, And laughed so-- M. MERRY. That she could not sit upright. R. ROISTER. No, faith, could she not. M. MERRY. No, even such a thing I cast.[62] R. ROISTER. But for wooing, thou knowest, women are shamefast. But, and she knew my mind, I know she would be glad, And think it the best chance that ever she had. M. MERRY. To her, then, like a man, and be bold forth to start: Wooers never speed well, that have a false heart. R. ROISTER. What may I best do? M. MERRY. Sir, remain ye awhile [here];[63] Ere long one or other of her house will appear. Ye know my mind. R. ROISTER. Yea, now hardily let me alone. M. MERRY. In the meantime, sir, if you please, I will home, And call your musicians; for in this your case It would set you forth, and all your wooing grace, Ye may not lack your instruments to play and sing. R. ROISTER. Thou knowest I can do that-- M. MERRY. As well as anything. Shall I go call your folks, that we may show a cast? R. ROISTER. Yea, run, I beseech thee, in all possible haste, M. MERRY. I go. [_Exeat._ R. ROISTER. Yea, for I love singing out of measure, It comforteth my spirits, and doth me great pleasure. But who cometh forth yond from my sweetheart Custance? My matter frameth well; this is a lucky chance. ACTUS I., SCÆNA 3. MADGE MUMBLECRUST[64] _spinning on the distaff_: TIBET TALKAPACE _sowing_: ANNOT ALYFACE _knitting_: R. ROISTER _behind_. M. MUMBL. If this distaff were spun, Margery Mumblecrust-- TIB. TALK. Where good stale ale is, will drink no water, I trust. M. MUMBL. Dame Custance hath promised us good ale and white bread. TIB. TALK. If she keep not promise, I will beshrew her head. But it will be stark night, before I shall have done. R. ROISTER (_aside_). I will stand here awhile, and talk with them anon. I hear them speak of Custance, which doth my heart good; To hear her name spoken doth even comfort my blood. M. MUMBL. Sit down to your work, Tibet, like a good girl. TIB. TALK. Nurse, meddle you with your spindle and your whirl. No haste but good, Madge Mumblecrust; for whip and whur,[65] The old proverb doth say, never made good fur. M. MUMBL. Well, ye will sit down to your work anon, I trust. TIB. TALK. Soft fire maketh sweet malt,[66] good Madge Mumblecrust, M. MUMBL. And sweet malt maketh jolly good ale for the nonce. TIB. TALK. Which will slide down the lane[67] without any bones. [_Cantet._[68] Old brown-bread crusts must have much good mumbling; But good ale down your throat hath good easy tumbling. R. ROISTER (_aside_). The jolliest wench that ere I heard! Little mouse, May I not rejoice that she shall dwell in my house?