[Enter Priest and Doll.]
SIR JOHN.
Come, Doll, come; be merry, wench.
Farewell, Kent, we are not fond for thee.
Be lusty, my lass, come, for Lancashire,
We must nip the Boung for these crowns.
DOLL.
Why, is all the gold spent already that you had the
other day?
SIR JOHN.
Gone, Doll, gone; flown, spent, vanished: the devil,
drink and the dice has devoured all.
DOLL.
You might have left me in Kent, that you might, until
you had been better provided, I could have stayed at
Cobham.
SIR JOHN.
No, Doll, no, I’ll none of that; Kent’s too hot, Doll,
Kent’s too hot. The weathercock of Wrotham will
crow no longer: we have pluckt him, he has lost
his feathers; I have pruned him bare, left him thrice;
is moulted, is moulted, wench.
DOLL.
Faith, sir John, I might have gone to service again;
old master Harpoole told me he would provide me a
mistress.
SIR JOHN.
Peace, Doll, peace. Come, mad wench, I’ll make thee
an honest woman; we’ll into Lancashire to our friends:
the troth is, I’ll marry thee. We want but a little money
to buy us a horse, and to spend by the way; the next
sheep that comes shall lose his fleece, we’ll have these
crowns, wench, I warrant thee.
[Enter the Irish man with his master slain.]
Stay, who comes here? some Irish villain, me thinks,
that has slain a man, and draws him out of the way to
rifle him. Stand close, Doll, we’ll see the end.
[The Irish man falls to rifle his master.]
IRISHMAN.
Alas, poe mester, Sir Rishard Lee, be saint Patrick is
rob and cut thy trote for dee shaine, and dy money, and
dee gold ring be me truly: is love thee well, but now dow
be kill, thee bee shitten kanave.
SIR JOHN.
Stand, sirra; what art thou?
IRISHMAN.
Be saint Patrick, mester, is pore Irisman, is a leufter.
SIR JOHN.
Sirra, sirra, you are a damned rogue; you have killed a
man here, and rifled him of all that he has. Sblood, you
rogue, deliver, or I’ll not leave you so much as an Irish
hair above your shoulders, you whoreson Irish dog.
Sirra, untruss presently; come, off and dispatch, or by
this cross I’ll fetch your head off as clean as a bark.
IRISHMAN.
Wee’s me, saint Patrick! Ise kill me mester for chain
and his ring, and nows be rob of all: mee’s undoo.
[Priest robs him.]
SIR JOHN.
Avant, you rascal! Go, sirra, be walking. Come, Doll,
the devil laughs, when one thief robs another: come,
mad wench, we’ll to saint Albans, and revel in our
bower; hey, my brave girl.
DOLL.
O thou art old sir John when all’s done, yfaith.
[Exeunt.]