_Mer._ How was it Son? you told me that to morrow Before day break, you must convey her hence. _Hum._ I must, I must, and thus it is agreed, Your Daughter rides upon a brown-bay Steed, I on a Sorrel, which I bought of _Brian_, The honest Host of the red roaring Lion In _Waltham_ situate: then if you may, Consent in seemly sort, lest by delay, The fatal Sisters come, and do the office, And then you'll sing another Song. _Merch._ Alas. Why should you be thus full of grief to me, That do as willing as your self agree To any thing so it be good and fair? Then steal her when you will, if such a pleasure Content you both, I'll sleep and never see it, To make your joys more full: but tell me why You may not here perform your marriage? _Wife._ Gods blessing o'thy soul, old man, i'faith thou art loth to part true hearts: I see a has her, _George_, and I'm as glad on't; well, go thy ways _Humphrey_ for [a fair] spoken man, I believe thou hast not thy fellow within the walls of _London_, and I should say the Suburbs too, I should not lie: why dost not thou rejoyce with me _George_? _Cit._ If I could but see _Ralph_ again, I were as merry as mine Host i'faith. [_Hum._] The cause you seem to ask, I thus declare; Help me oh _Muses_ nine, your Daughter sware A foolish oath, the more it was the pity: Yet none but my self within this City Shall dare to say so, but a bold defiance Shall meet him, were he of the noble Science. And yet she sware, and yet why did she swear? Truly I cannot tell, unless it were For her own ease: for sure sometimes an oath, Being sworn thereafter, is like cordial broth. And this it was, she swore never to marry, But such a one whose mighty arm could carry (As meaning me, for I am such a one) Her bodily away through stick and stone, Till both of us arrive at her request, Some ten miles off in the wide _Waltham_ Forrest. _Merch._ If this be all, you shall not need to fear Any denial in your love, proceed, I'll neither follow, nor repent the deed. _Hum._ Good night, twenty good nights, and twenty more, And twenty more good nights, that makes threescore. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Mistriss_ Merry-thought, _and her Son_ Michael. _Mist. Mer._ Come _Michael_, art thou not weary Boy? _Mich._ No forsooth Mother not I. _Mist. Mer._ Where be we now child? _Mich._ Indeed forsooth Mother I cannot tell, unless we be at _Mile-end_, is not all the world _Mile-end_, Mother?