_Rut_. How now, what livery's this? do you call this a wedding?
This is more like a funeral.

_Char_. It is one,
And my poor Daughter going to her grave,
To his most loath'd embraces that gapes for her.
Make the Earles bed readie, is the marriage done Sir?

_Rut_. Yes they are knit; but must this slubberdegullion
Have her maiden-head now?

[_Char_.] There's no avoiding it.

_Rut_. And there's the scaffold where she must lose it.

[_Char_.] The bed Sir.

_Rut_. No way to wipe his mouldy chaps?

_Char_. That we know.

_Rut_. To any honest well-deserving fellow,
And 'twere but to a merry Cobbler, I could sit still now,
I love the game so well; but that this puckfist,
This universal rutter--fare ye well Sir;
And if you have any good prayers, put 'em forward,
There may be yet a remedie.

_Char_. I wish it, [_Exit_ Rut.
And all my best devotions offer to it.