W. SMALL. Tut, our curate craves no licence; he swears His living came to him by a miracle. BOUT. How by [a] miracle? W. SMALL. Why, he paid nothing for't: He swears that few be free from simony, But only Welshmen, and those he says, too, Are but mountain priests. BOUT. But hang him, fool, he lies: What's his reason? W. SMALL. His reason is this; That all their livings are so rude and bare, That not a man will venture his damnation By giving money for them: he does protest, There is but two pair of hose and shoes In all his parish. 1ST GENT. Hold up your light, sir. BEARD. Shall I be taught how to advance my torch? W. SMALL. What's the matter, lieutenant? 2D GENT. Your lieutenant's an ass. BEARD. How, an ass? die, men, like dogs?[380] [_Draws._ W. SMALL. Hold, gentlemen. BEARD. An ass! an ass! THROAT. Hold, brother, hold! lieutenant. Put up, as you are men; your wife is gone. W. SMALL. Gone? BOUT. Gone. W. SMALL. How? which way? this is some plot. T. SMALL. Down toward Fleet Bridge. ALL. Follow, follow, follow! 1ST GENT. So has the wench; let us pursue aloof,[381] And see the event. This will prove good mirth, When things unshap'd shall have a perfect birth. [_Exit._ _Enter_ WILLIAM SMALL-SHANKS, BOUTCHER, THOMAS SMALL-SHANKS, _and_ BEARD, _their swords drawn_. W. SMALL. 'Tis a thing impossible they should be gone Thus far, and we not see them. T. SMALL. Upon my life, They went in by the Greyhound, and so struck Into Bridewell. BOUT. What should she make there? T. SMALL. Take water at the dock. BEARD. Water at dock! A fico for her dock! you'll not be rul'd, You'll still be obstinate, I'll pawn my fate, She took along Shoe Lane, and so went home. W. SMALL. Home? BEARD. Ay, home; how could she choose but go, Seeing so many naked tools at once Drawn in the street? T. SMALL. What scurvy luck was this? W. SMALL. Come, we will find her, or we'll fire the suburbs. Put up your tools; let's first along Shoe Lane, Then straight up Holborn; if we find her not, We'll thence direct to Throat's; if she be lost, I am undone, and all your hopes are cross'd. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ SIR OLIVER SMALL-SHANKS, JUSTICE TUTCHIN, MISTRESS TAFFATA, ADRIANA. O. SMALL. Widow, I must be short. JUS. TUT. Sir Oliver, Will you shame yourself, ha? you must be short! Why, what a word was that to tell a widow? O. SMALL. I meant I must be brief. JUS. TUT. Why say so, then, Yet that's almost as ill; go to, speak on. O. SMALL. Widow, I must be brief; what old men do, They must do quickly. TAF. Then, good sir, do it; Widows are seldom slow to put men to it.