STEPH. Well may he speed, sir. Lambskin and Speedwell. Ha! is't so? I think I shall give you a medicine to purge this itch of love, sir. LAMB. No itch neither, sir; we have no scabs here But yourself and your cousin. STEPH. Very good, sir! my little Lambskin, I have you Here in sheep's-skin [_Produces a parchment_]; look you, 'tis so, i' faith. See, master alderman, these two crack'd gallants Are in several bonds to my predecessor For a debt of full two thousand a-piece. Cousin, fetch me a sergeant straight. ROB. Yes, sir. SPEED. O, let him: I have a protection, sir. STEPH. I'll try that, sir. SPEED. A sergeant? nay, then, Experience must work: legs be strong and bold: When sergeants wait at feasts, the cheer's but cold. I'll shift for one. [_Exit._ LAMB. Knight, knight! 'Sfoot! if an errand-knight run away, I were an errand ass to tarry, and be catched in the lime-bush: I love the wench well; but if they have no hole to place me in but the hole in the counter, I'll be gone and leave 'em; that's flat. [_Exit._ BREW. You have scared the suitors from the mark, sir. STEPH. I am glad on't, sir; they are but such as seek To build their rotten state on you, and with your wealth To underprop their weakness: Believe me, reverend sir, I had much rather You'd venture that my coz might call you father. BREW. We'll talk of that anon. See, sir, here comes you wife. _Enter_ STEPHEN'S WIFE. The theme of all her time, with goodness mix'd, The happy woman that was never vex'd. You're welcome, Mistress Foster. WIFE. I thank ye, sir. STEPH. Wife, your two debtors Were here but now, Speedwell and Lambskin. A wolf could not have torn poor Lambskin worse Than the bare name of sergeant: the very thought Made them both take their heels and run away. WIFE. 'Las! they are poor and lean, and being so, Kill them not till they are fatter. STEPH. At thy girdle, sweet, hang the keys To lock the prison doors or let them loose: 'Twas my intent only (in way of mirth) To rid them from the presence of Mistress Jane, That our adopted son might have no bar Unto his love. WIFE. The match is fair; and were that knot once tied, I'd send some angels to attend the bride. _Enter_ GEORGE. STEPH. Sir, here's your factor. BREW. Are the wares ready? GEORGE. Yes, and delivered, sir, to Master Foster's servants, who conveyed them in carts to the Custom House, there to be shipped; but going with them, sir, I met ill news. BREW. Ill news? what is't? GEORGE. Old Master Foster's ships, so richly laden, By strange misfortune, sir, are cast away. BREW. Now heaven forbid! ROB. O me!