+Sim.+ Ha, ha, ha! so, so; this midnight match shall be mine; she told me she was to meet the Ancient there. I'll be sure the Ancient shall meet him there; so I shall lie abed and laugh, to think, if he meet her there, how she will be startled; and if the Ancient meet him there, how he will be cudgelled. Beware your ribs, Master Randall. [_Exit._ _Enter +Old Bloodhound+._ +Blood.+ I wonder where this young rogue spends the day. I hear he has received my hundred marks and my advantage with it; and, it may be, he went home since I went out. Jarvis was with me but even now, and bid me watch, and narrowly, for fear of some of my rival spies, for I know she has many wealthy suitors. All love money. This Jarvis is most neat in a love business, and, when we are married (because many mouths, much meat), I will requite his courtesy, and turn him away: the widow's all I look for. Nay, let her fling to see I have her possessions; there's a saw for't-- _There's thriving in wiving: for when we bury Wives by half-dozens, the money makes merry._ O money, money, money! I will build thee An altar on my heart, and offer thee My morning longings and my evening wishes, And, hadst thou life, kill thee with covetous kisses. _Enter +John+ and +Jarvis+._ +John.+ But now, and she speak, she spoils all; or if he call her by my mistress's name, hast thou not tricks to enjoin them both to silence, till they come sure? +Jar.+ Phaw! that's a stale one: she shall speak to him in her own accent; he shall call her by her own name, leaving out the bawd, yet she shall violently believe he loves her, and he shall confidently believe the same which he requires, and she but presents. Fall off; she comes. _Enter +Mistress Coote+._ +Mis. Coote.+ Jarvis! +Jar.+ Here I have discovered him; 'tis he, by his coughs. Remember your instructions, and use few words; say, though till night you knew it not, you will be married early in the morning, to prevent a vintner's widow that lays claim to him. +Blood.+ Jarvis! +Jar.+ Good old man, I know him by his tongue. +Blood.+ Is she come? Is she come, Jarvis? +Jar.+ Ask her if she would live, sir. She walks aloof yonder. +Blood.+ We shall cosen all her wooers. +Jar.+ Nay, amongst all of you, we'll cosen one great one, that had laid a pernicious plot this night, with a cluster of his roaring friends, to surprise her, carry her down to the waterside, pop her in at Puddle-dock,[89] and carry her to Gravesend in a pair of oars. +Blood.+ What, what is his name, I prythee? +Jar.+ He's a knight abounding in deeds of charity; his name Sir Nicholas Nemo. +Blood.+ And would he pop her in at Puddle-dock?