W. SMALL. Now may I go put me on a clean shirt, And hang myself. Foot, who would have thought The fox had earth'd so near me; what's to be done? What miracle shall I now undertake To win respective[409] grace with God and men? What, if I turn'd courtier and liv'd honest? Sure, that would do: I dare not walk the streets, For I dwindle at a serjeant in buff Almost as much as a new player does At a plague-bill certified forty.[410] Well, I like this widow: a lusty plump drab: Has substance both in breech and purse, And pity and sin it were she should be wed To a furr'd cloak and a night-cap. I'll have her: This widow I will have: her money Shall pay my debts, and set me up again. 'Tis here, 'tis almost forg'd, which if it take, The world shall praise my wit, admire my fate. [_Exit._ _Enter_ BEARD, DASH, FRANCES, SERJEANT, DRAWER. BEARD. Serjeants, beware; be sure you not mistake, For if you do-- DASH. She shall be quickly bail'd, She shall _corpus cum causa_ be remov'd; Your action entered first below shall shrink, And you shall find, sir serjeant, she has friends Will stick to her in the common place. SER. Sir, Will you procure her bail? BEARD. She shall be bail'd. Drawer, bring up some wine, use her well, Her husband is a gentleman of sort. SER. A gentleman of sort! why, what care I? A woman of her fashion shall find More kindness at a lusty serjeant's hand Than ten of your gentlemen of sort. DASH. Sir, use her well: she's wife to Master Throat. SER. I'll use her, sir, as if she were my wife: Would you have any more? BEARD. Drink upon that, Whilst we go fetch her bail. Dash, fellow Dash, With all the speed thou hast, run for our master; Make haste, lest he be gone, before thou comest, To Lady Sommerfield's: I'll fetch another; She shall have bail. DASH. And a firking writ Of false imprisonment; she shall be sure Of twelvepence damage, and five-and-twenty pound For suits in law: I'll go fetch my master. BEARD. And I another. [_Exeunt_ BEARD _and_ DASH. SER. Drawer, leave the room. Here, mistress, a health! FRAN. Let it come, sweet rogue. [_The_ DRAWER _stands aside_. DRAWER. Ay, say you so? then must I have an eye; These serjeants feed on very good reversions, On capons, teals, and sometimes on a woodcock, Hot from the shrieve's own table[411]; the knaves feed well, Which makes them horrid lechers.