O. SMALL. No doubt, no doubt; Ah, sirrah! has a' borne the wench away! My son, i' faith, my very son, i' faith! When I was young, and had an able back, And wore the bristle on my upper-lip, In good decorum I had as good conveyance, And could have ferk'd, and ferk'd y' away a wench, As soon as e'er a man alive. Tut, boy, I had my winks, my becks, treads on the toe, Wrings by the fingers, smiles, and other quirks-- No courtier like me; your courtiers all are fools, To that which I could do. I could have done it, boy, Even to a hair, and that some ladies know. T. SMALL. Sir, I am glad this match may reconcile Your love unto my brother. O. SMALL. O, 'tis more than so. [Yet] I'll seem offended still, though I am glad [_Aside._ _Enter_ WILLIAM SMALL-SHANKS, FRANCES, BEARD, _booted_. H' has got rich Sommerfield's heir, W. SMALL. Come, wench of gold! For thou shalt get me gold, besides odd ends Of silver: we'll purchase house and land By thy bare gettings, wench, by thy bare gettings. How say'st, Lieutenant Beard; does she not look Like a wench newly stole from a window? BEARD. Exceeding well she carries it, by Jove; And if she can forbear her rampant tricks, And but hold close a while, 'twill take, by Mars. FRAN. How now, you slave? my rampant tricks, you rogue! Nay, fear not me: my only fear is still, Thy filthy face betrays us; for all men know, Thy nose stands compass like a bow, Which is three quarters drawn; thy head Which is with greasy hair o'erspread, And being uncurl'd and black as coal, Doth show some scullion in a hole Begot thee on a gipsy, or Thy mother was some collier's whore: My rampant tricks, you rogue! thou'lt be descried, Before our plot be ended. W. SMALL. What should descry him, Unless it be his nose? and as for that, Thou may'st protest he was thy father's butler, And for thy love is likewise run away. Nay, sweet lieutenant, now forbear to puff, And let the bristles of thy beard grow downward: Reverence my punk, and pandarise a little, There's many of thy rank that do profess it, Yet hold it no disparagement. BEARD. I shall do What fits an honest man. W. SMALL. Why, that's enough: 'Foot, my father and the goose my brother:-- Back you two.-- BEARD. Back. [_Enter_ WILLIAM _and_ OLIVER SMALL-SHANKS.] W. SMALL. Retire, sweet lieutenant, And come not on till I shall wave you on. O. SMALL. Is not that he? T. SMALL. 'Tis he. O. SMALL. But where's the wench![351] W. SMALL. It shall be so, I'll cheat him, that's flat.