_Wife._ O George, here's Master Humphrey again now, that lost Mistress Luce, and Mistress Luce's father. Master Humphrey will do somebody's errand I warrant him. _Hum._ Father, it's true in arms I ne'er shall clasp her, For she is stol'n away by your man Jasper. _Wife._ I thought he would tell him. _Mer._ Unhappy that I am to lose my child: Now I begin to think on Jasper's words, Who oft hath urg'd to me thy foolishness; Why didst thou let her go? thou lov'st her not, That wouldst bring home thy life, and not bring her. _Hum._ Father, forgive me, I shall tell you true, Look on my shoulders, they are black and blue, Whilst to and fro fair Luce and I were winding, He came and basted me with a hedge binding. _Mer._ Get men and horses straight, we will be there Within this hour; you know the place again? _Hum._ I know the place where he my loins did swaddle, I'll get six horses, and to each a saddle. _Mer._ Mean time I will go talk with Jasper's father. [_Exeunt._ _Wife._ George, what wilt thou lay with me now, that Master Humphrey has not Mistress Luce yet; speak, George, what wilt thou lay with me? _Cit._ No, Nell, I warrant thee, Jasper is at Puckeridge with her by this. _Wife._ Nay, George, you must consider Mistress Luce's feet are tender, and besides, 'tis dark, and I promise you truly, I do not see how he should get out of Waltham Forest with her yet. _Cit._ Nay, honey, what wilt thou lay with me that Ralph has her not yet? _Wife._ I will not lay against Ralph, honny, because I have not spoken with him: but look, George, peace, here comes the merry old gentleman again. _Enter_ OLD MERRY-THOUGHT. _Old Mer._ "When it was grown to dark midnight, And all were fast asleep, In came Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet." I have money, and meat, and drink beforehand, till to-morrow at noon, why should I be sad? Methinks I have half a dozen jovial spirits within me, "I am three merry men, and three merry men." To what end should any man be sad in this world? Give me a man that when he goes to hanging cries "Troul the black bowl to me;" and a woman that will sing a catch in her travail. I have seen a man come by my door with a serious face, in a black cloak, without a hatband, carrying his head as if he look'd for pins in the street. I have look'd out of my window half a year after, and have spied that man's head upon London Bridge. 'Tis vile! Never trust a tailor that does not sing at his work, his mind is of nothing but filching. _Wife._ Mark this, George, 'tis worth noting: Godfrey, my tailor, you know, never sings, and he had fourteen yards to make this gown: and I'll be sworn, Mistress Penistone, the draper's wife, had one made with twelve.