R. ROISTER. Yea, an hundred thousand pound should not save her life. M. MERRY. No, but that ye woo her to have her to your wife; But I could not stop her mouth. R. ROISTER. Heigho, alas! M. MERRY. Be of good cheer, man, and let the world pass.[111] R. ROISTER. What shall I do or say, now that it will not be? M. MERRY. Ye shall have choice of a thousand as good as she; And ye must pardon her; it is for lack of wit. R. ROISTER. Yea, for were not I an husband for her fit? Well, what should I now do? M. MERRY. I'faith, I cannot tell. R. ROISTER. I will go home, and die. M. MERRY. Then shall I bid toll the bell? R. ROISTER. No. M. MERRY. God have mercy on your soul: ah, good gentleman, That e'er you should thus die for an unkind woman! Will ye drink once, ere ye go? R. ROISTER. No, no, I will none. M. MERRY. How feels your soul to God? R. ROISTER. I am nigh-gone. M. MERRY. And shall we hence straight? R. ROISTER. Yea. M. MERRY. _Placebo dilexi._ [_ut infra._[112] Master Roister Doister will straight go home, and die. R. ROISTER. Heigho, alas! the pangs of death my heart do break. M. MERRY. Hold your peace, for shame, sir! a dead man may not speak _Ne quando._ What mourners and what torches shall we have? R. ROISTER. None. M. MERRY. _Dirige._ He will go darkling to his grave: _Neque lux, neque crux, neque_ mourners, _neque_ clink, He will steal to heaven, unknowing to God, I think, _A porta inferi_. Who shall your goods possess? R. ROISTER. Thou shalt be my sector,[113] and have all, more or less. M. MERRY. _Requiem æternam._ Now, God reward your mastership, And I will cry halfpenny-dole for your worship, Come forth, sirs; hear the doleful news I shall you tell. [_Evocat servos milites._ Our good master here will no longer with us dwell, But in spite of Custance, which hath him wearied, Let us see his maship solemnly buried; And while some piece of his soul is yet him within, Some part of his funerals let us here begin. _Audivi vocem._ All men take heed by this one gentleman, How you set your love upon an unkind woman: For these women be all such mad, peevish elves, They will not be won, except to please themselves. But, in faith, Custance, if ever ye come in hell, Master Roister Doister shall serve you as well-- And will ye needs go from us thus in very deed? R. ROISTER. Yea, in good sadness.