_Mer._ O Master _Merry-thought_! my Daughters gone, This mirth becomes you not, my Daughter's gone.
_Old Mer._ Why an if she be, what care I? Or let her come, or go, or tarry.
_Merch._ Mock not my misery, it is your Son, Whom I have made my own, when all forsook him, Has stoln my only joy, my child away.
_Old Mer._ He set her on a milk white Steed, and himself upon a gray, He never turn'd his face again, but he bore her quite away.
_Merch._ Unworthy of the kindness I have shewn To thee, and thine: too late, I well perceive Thou art consenting to my Daughters loss.
_Old Mer._ Your Daughter, what a-stirs here wi' y'r daughter? Let her go, think no more on her, but sing loud. If both my sons were on the gallows, I would sing _down, down, down_: they fall down, and arise they never shall.
_Merch._ Oh might I behold her once again, And she once more embrace her aged sire.
_Old Mer._ Fie, how scurvily this goes: and she once more embrace her aged sire? you'll make a dog on her, will ye; she cares much for her aged sire, I warrant you. She cares not for her Daddy, nor she cares not for her Mammy. For she is, she is, she is[, she is] my Lord of _Low-gaves_ Lassie.
_Merch._ For this thy scorn I will pursue That son of thine to death.
_Old Mer._ Do, and when you ha kill'd him, Give him flowers i'now Palmer, give him flowers i'now, Give him red and white, and blue, green, and yellow.
_Old Mer._ I'll hear no more o' your Daughter, it spoils my mirth.
_Old Mer._ Was never man for Ladies sake, _down, down_, Tormented as I [poore] Sir _Guy_? _de derry down_, For _Lucies_ sake, that Lady bright, _down, down_, As ever men beheld with eye? _de derry down_.
_Merch._ I'll be reveng'd by heaven. [_Exeunt._ Finis _Act. Secund._
_Wife._ How dost thou like this _George_?
_Cit._ Why this is well Cunnie: but if _Ralph_ were hot once: thou shouldst see more.
_Cit._ I _Nell_, but this is scurvy Musick: I gave the whoreson gallows money, and I think he has not got me the Waits of _Southwark_, if I hear him not anan, I'll twinge him by the ears.
_Wife._ No good _George_, let's ha _Lachrymæ_.
_Wife._ It's all the better _George_: now sweet Lamb, what story is that painted upon the cloth? the confutation of Saint Paul?