THROAT. These storms will be dissolv'd in tears of joy, Mother, I doubt it not. Justice, to you, That jerk at my half-sleeves, and yet yourself Do never wear but buckram out of sight: A flannel waist-coat or a canvas truss, A shift of thrift, I use it: let's be friends, You know the law has tricks--ka me, ka thee! _Viderit utilitas_, the mot to these half-arms, _Corpus cum causa_, need no bumbasting: We wear small hair, yet have we tongue and wit, Lawyers close-breech'd have bodies politic. LADY SOM. Speak, answer me, sir Jack: stole you my daughter? THROAT. Short tale to make, I fingered have your daughter: I have ta'en livery and seisin of the wench. Deliver her then: you know the statute-laws; She's mine without exception, bar, or clause; Come, come, restore. LADY SOM. The fellow's mad, I think. THROAT. I was not mad before I married; But, _ipso facto_, what the act may make me, That know I not. JUST. TUT. Fellows, come in there. _Enter two or three_ SERVANTS. By this, sir, you confess you stole my niece, And I attach you here of felony. Lay hold on him! I'll make my mittimus, And send him to the gaol; have we no bar Nor clause to hamper you? away with him, Those claws shall claw you to a bar of shame, Where thou shalt show thy goll[428]. I'll bar your claim, If I be Justice Tutchin. THROAT. Hands off, you slaves! O, favour my jerkin, though you tear my flesh. I set more store by that: my _Audita_ _Querela_ shall be heard, and with a _Certiorari_ I'll fetch her from you with a pox. _Enter_ BEARD. BEARD. What's here to do? is all the world in arms? More tumults, brawls, and insurrections? Is blood the theme, whereon our time must treat? THROAT. Here's Beard your butler: a rescue, Beard; draw. BEARD. Draw I not so: my blade's as ominously drawn Unto the death of nine or ten such grooms, As is a knife unsheath'd, with th' hungry maw, Threat'ning the ruin of a chine of beef: But for the restless toil it took of late, My blade shall sleep awhile. THROAT. Help. BEARD. Stop thy throat. And hear me speak, whose bloody characters Will show I have been scuffling. Briefly thus: Thy wife, your daughter, and your lovely niece, Is hurri'd now to Fleet Street: the damn'd crew With glaves and clubs have rapt her from these arms. Throat, thou art bobb'd; although thou bought'st the heir, Yet hath the slave made a re-entry. JUS. TUT. Sirrah, what are you? THROAT. My lady's butler, sir. BEARD. Not I, by heaven! THROAT. By this good light, he swore it, And for your daughter's love he ran away. BEARD. By Jove, I gull'd thee, Throat.