_Mist. Mer._ So _Michael_, now get thee gone too. _Mich._ Yes forsooth Mother, but I'll have my Father's blessing first. _Mist. Mer._ No _Michael_, 'tis no matter for his blessing; thou hast my blessing, begone; I'll fetch my money and jewels, and follow thee: I'll stay no longer with him I warrant thee; truly _Charles_ I'll begon too. [_Old Mer._ What you will not?] _Mist. Mer._ Yes indeed will I. _Old Mer._ Hay ho, farewel _Nan_, I'll never trust wench more again, if I can. _Mist. Mer._ You shall not think (when all your own is gone) to spend that I have been scraping up for _Michael_. _Old Mer._ Farewel good wife, I expect it not; all I have to do in this world, is to be merry: which I shall, if the ground be not taken from me: and if it be, When Earth and Seas from me are reft, The Skies aloft for me are left. [_Exeunt._ [_Boy danceth, Musick._ _Finis Actus Primi._ _Wife._ I'll be sworn he's a merry old Gentleman for all that: Hark, hark Husband, hark, Fiddles, Fiddles; now surely they go finely. They say 'tis present death for these Fidlers to tune their Rebecks before the great _Turks_ grace, is't not _George_? But look, look, here's a youth dances: now good youth do a turn o'th' toe; Sweet-heart, i'faith I'll have _Ralph_ come, and do some of his Gambols; he'll ride the Wild Mare Gentlemen, 'twould do your hearts good to see him: I thank you kind youth, pray bid _Ralph_ come. _Cit._ Peace Connie. Sirrah, you scurvy boy, bid the Players send _Ralph_, or by gods ---- and they do not, I'll tear some of their Periwigs beside their heads: this is all Riff-Raff. _Actus Secundus. Scæna Prima._ _Enter_ Merchant _and_ Humphrey. _Merch._ And how faith? how goes it now Son _Humphrey_? _Hum._ Right worshipful and my beloved friend And Father dear, this matter's at an end. _Merch._ 'Tis well, it should be so, I'm glad the Girl Is found so tractable. _Hum._ Nay, she must whirl From hence, and you must wink: for so I say, The story tells to morrow before day. _Wife. George_, dost thou think in thy conscience now 'twill be a match? tell me but what thou think'st sweet Rogue, thou seest the poor Gentleman (dear heart) how it labours and throbs I warrant you, to be at rest: I'll go move the Father for't. _Cit._ No, no, I prethee sit still Honey-suckle, thou'lt spoil all; if he deny him, I'll bring half a dozen good fellows my self, and in the shutting of an evening knock't up, and there's an end. _Wife._ I'll buss thee for that I'faith boy; well _George_, well you have been a wag in your days I warrant you: but God forgive you, and I do with all my heart.