Chapter 16

[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.]