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.
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