To search through my house! I have no Varlets, no knaves, no
stewd prunes, no she fierie phagies [faces?]; my Chambers are swept, my
sinkes are all scowred, the honest shall come in, the knaves shall goe
by; yet will I, maister Constable, goe search through my house, I care
not a sheepes skin.
_Const_. We are compeld to doe it, mine host; a Gentleman is robd last
night, & we are to search every privy corner.
_Host_. Mine host is true Mettall, a man of reputation, a true
_Holefernes_, he loves juice of grapes, and welcom, maister Constable.
[_Exit_.
_Acut_. _Graccus_, how likst thou this?
_Grac_. Excellent, for now must he needes fall into Constables hands,
and if he have any grace, twil appear in his face, when he shall be
carried through the streete in a white sheet; twill be a good penance
for his fault.
_Hostis_. Now fortune favour that my husband find him not.
_Cittie wife_. Heele be horne mad & never able to indure it: why, woman,
if he had but as much man in him as a Maribone, heele take the burthen
uppon his own necke and never discover you.
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