_and a boy, with wine and a napkin_.

WILL CRICKET.
Nay, hear you; drink, afore you bargain.

GRIPE.
Mass, and 'tis a good motion. Boy, fill some wine, [_He fills them wine,
and gives them the napkin_.] Here, neighbour and Master Churms, I drink
to you.

BOTH.
We thank you, sir.

WILL CRICKET.
Lawyer, wipe clean. Do you remember?

CHURMS.
Remember? why?

WILL CRICKET.
Why, since you know when.

CHURMS.
Since when?

WILL CRICKET.
Why, since you were bumbasted, that your lubberly legs would not carry
your lobcock body; when you made an infusion of your stinking excrements
in your stalking implements. O, you were plaguy frayed, and foully
rayed--

GRIPE.
Prythee, peace, Will! Neighbour Plod-all, what say you to this match?
shall it go forward?

PLOD-ALL.
Sir, that must be as our children like. For my son, I think I can rule
him; marry, I doubt your daughter will hardly like of him; for, God wot,
he's very simple.

GRIPE.
My daughter's mine to command; have I not brought her up to this? She
shall have him. I'll rule the roost for that. I'll give her pounds and
crowns, gold and silver. I'll weigh her down in pure angel gold. Say,
man, is't a match?

PLOD-ALL.
Faith, I agree.

CHURMS.
But, sir, if you give your daughter so large a dowry, you'll have some
part of his land conveyed to her by jointure?

GRIPE.
Yes, marry, that I will, and we'll desire your help for conveyance.

PLOD-ALL.
Ay, good Master Churms, and you shall be very well contented for your
pains.

WILL CRICKET.
Ay, marry; that's it he looked for all this while. [_Aside_.

CHURMS.
Sir, I will do the best I can.

WILL CRICKET.
But, landlord, I can tell you news, i' faith. There is one Sophos, a
brave gentleman; he'll wipe your son Peter's nose of Mistress Lelia. I
can tell you, he loves her well.

GRIPE.
Nay, I trow.

WILL CRICKET.
Yes, I know, for I am sure I saw them close together at poop-noddy in
her closet.

GRIPE.
But I am sure she loves him not.

WILL CRICKET.
Nay, I dare take it on my death she loves him, for he's a scholar, and
'ware scholars! they have tricks for love, i' faith; for with a little
logic and _Pitome colloquium_ they'll make a wench do anything.
Landlord, pray ye, be not angry with me for speaking my conscience. In
good faith, your son Peter's a very clown to him. Why, he's as fine a
man as a wench can see in a summer's day.

GRIPE.
Well, that shall not serve his turn; I'll cross him,