_Enter_ TAFFATA. TAF. Where be these lazy knaves? some raise the house. What meant the cry of murther? where's my love? W. SMALL. _Come, Isabella, help me to lament,_ _For sighs are stopp'd, and all my tears are spent._ _These clothes I oft have seen, ay me, my friend!_ Pursue the murtherers, raise all the street. CON. It shall not need; he stirs; give him breath. W. SMALL. _Is there yet life? Horatio, my dear boy:_ _Horatio, Horatio, what hast thou misdone,_ _To lose thy life, when life was new-begun?_ BOUT. 'S heart! a man had as good be hang'd outright, As to endure this clapping. Shame to thy sex, Perfidious perjur'd woman, where's thy shame? How can thy modesty forbear to blush, And know'st I know thee an adulteress? Have not thy vows made thee my lawful wife Before the face of heaven? where is thy shame? But why speak I of shame to thee, whose face Is steel'd with custom'd sin; whose thoughts want grace, The custom of thy sin so lulls thy sense. Women ne'er blush, though ne'er so foul th' offence. To break thy vow to me, and straight to wed A doating stinkard! W. SMALL. But hold your tongue, Or by this light I'll truss you up again. 'Heart! rail on my wife! am I[439] a stinkard, Or do I doat? speak such another word, And up you truss again. Am I a stinkard? BOUT. The knight your father is. W. SMALL. Why, who denies it? He supplanted[440] thee, and I supplanted him. Come, come, you shall be friends: come, forgive her; For by this light there is no remedy, Unless you will betake you to my leavings. CON. Rather than so, I'll help you to a wife, Rich, well-born, and by some accounted fair; And for the worth of her virginity, I dare presume to pawn my honesty: What say you to Constantia Sommerfield? W. SMALL. Dost know where she is, boy? CON. I do; nay more, If he but swear to embrace her constant love, I'll fetch her to this place. W. SMALL. He shall do it, boy. _Enter_ Sir OLIVER _and fiddlers_. He shall do it, go fetch her, boy. Foot, my father. [_Exit_ CONSTANTIA. Stand to't now, old wench, stand to't now. OLIVER. Now fresh and youthful as the month of May, I'll bid my bride good-morrow. Musicians, on: Lightly, lightly; and by my knighthood-spurs, This year you shall have my protection, And yet not buy your livery coat yourselves. Good morrow, bride, fresh[441] as the month of May, I come to kiss thee on thy wedding-day. W. SMALL. Saving your tale, sir, I'll show you how April showers bring May flowers, So merrily sings the cuckoo. The truth is, I have laid my knife aboard. The widow, sir, is wedded. OLIVER. Ha! W. SMALL. Bedded. OLIVER. Ha!