Cit. Ay, I warrant thee; the players would give all the shoes in their shop for him.]

Ralph. My beloved squire Tim, stand out. Admit this were a desert, and over it a knight-errant pricking, and I should bid you inquire of his intents, what would you say?

Tim. Sir, my master sent me to know whither you are riding?

Ralph. No, thus: “Fair sir, the right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle commanded me to inquire upon what adventure you are bound, whether to relieve some distressed damsel, or otherwise.”

[Cit. Whoreson blockhead, cannot remember!

Wife. I’faith, and Ralph told him on’t before: all the gentlemen heard him.—Did he not, gentlemen? did not
Ralph tell him on’t?]

George. Right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, here is a distressed damsel to have a halfpenny-worth of pepper.

[Wife. That’s a good boy! see, the little boy can hit it; by my troth, it’s a fine child.]

Ralph. Relieve her, with all courteous language. Now shut up shop; no more my prentices, but my trusty squire and dwarf. I must bespeak my shield and arming pestle. [Exeunt Tim and George.

[Cit. Go thy ways, Ralph! As I’m a true man, thou art the best on ’em all.

Wife. Ralph, Ralph!

Ralph. What say you, mistress?

Wife. I prithee, come again quickly, sweet Ralph.

Ralph. By and by.] [Exit.

SCENE IV.—A Room in Merrythought’s House.

Enter Mistress Merrythought and Jasper.

Mist. Mer. Give thee my blessing! no, I’ll ne’er give thee my blessing; I’ll see thee hanged first; it shall ne’er be said I gave thee my blessing. Thou art thy father’s own son, of the right blood of the Merrythoughts. I may curse the time that e’er I knew thy father; he hath spent all his own and mine too; and when I tell him of it, he laughs, and dances, and sings, and cries, “A merry heart lives long-a.” And thou art a wastethrift, and art run away from thy master that loved thee well, and art come to me; and I have laid up a little for my younger son Michael, and thou thinkest to bezzle that, but thou shalt never be able to do it.—Come hither,
Michael!

Enter Michael.

Come, Michael, down on thy knees; thou shalt have my blessing.

Mich. [Kneels.] I pray you, mother, pray to God to bless me.

Mist. Mer. God bless thee! but Jasper shall never have my blessing; he shall be hanged first: shall he not, Michael? how sayest thou?

Mich. Yes, forsooth, mother, and grace of God.

Mist. Mer. That’s a good boy!