TRO. Whither go you? where's your warrant? EDG. Warrant! for what, sir? TRO. For what you go about, you know how fit it is; an you have no warrant, bless you, I'll pray for you, that's all I can do. [_Exit._ EDG. What means he? NIGHT. A madman that haunts the Fair; do you not know him? It's marvel he has not more followers after his ragged heels. EDG. Beshrew him, he startled me: I thought he had known of our plot. Guilt's a terrible thing. Have you prepared the costard-monger? NIGHT. Yes, and agreed for his basket of pears; he is at the corner here, ready. And your prize, he comes down sailing that way all alone, without his protector; he is rid of him, it seems. EDG. Ay, I know; I should have followed his protectorship, for a feat I am to do upon him: but this offered itself so in the way, I could not let scape: here he comes, whistle; be this sport call'd Dorring the Dotterel. _Re-enter COKES._ NIGHT. Wh, wh, wh, wh, etc. [_Whistles._ COKES. By this light, I cannot find my gingerbread wife, nor my hobby-horse man, in all the Fair now, to have my money again: and I do not know the way out on't, to go home for more. Do you hear, friend, you that whistle? what tune is that you whistle? NIGHT. A new tune I am practising, sir. COKES. Dost thou know where I dwell, I pray thee? nay, on with thy tune; I have no such haste for an answer: I'll practise with thee. _Enter COSTARD-MONGER, with a basket of Pears._ COS. Buy any pears, very fine pears, pears fine! [_Nightingale sets his foot afore him, and he falls with his basket._ COKES. Ods so! a muss, a muss, a muss, a muss! [_Falls a scrambling for the pears._ COS. Good gentlemen, my ware, my ware; I am a poor man. Good sir, my ware. NIGHT. Let me hold your sword, sir, it troubles you. COKES. Do, and my cloke an thou wilt, and my hat too. EDG. A delicate great boy! methinks he out-scrambles them all. I cannot persuade myself, but he goes to grammar-school yet, and plays the truant to-day. NIGHT. Would he had another purse to cut, Zekiel. EDG. Purse! a man might cut out his kidneys, I think, and he never feel 'em, he is so earnest at the sport. NIGHT. His soul is half way out on's body at the game. EDG. Away, Nightingale; that way. [_Nightingale runs off with his sword, cloke, and hat._ COKES. I think I am furnish'd for cather'ne pears, for one under-meal: Give me my cloke. COS. Good gentleman, give me my ware. COKES. Where's the fellow I gave my cloke to? my cloke and my hat; ha! ods 'lid, is he gone? thieves, thieves! help me to cry, gentlemen. [_Exit hastily._ EDG. Away, costard-monger, come to us to Ursula's. [_Exit Costard-Monger._]