_Wel._ Y'are nothing but offence, for Gods love leave me.
_Abig._ 'Tis strange my Ladie should be such a tyrant?
_Wel._ To send you to me, 'Pray goe stitch, good doe, y'are more trouble
to me than a Term.
_Abig._ I do not know how my good will, if I said love I lied not, should
any way deserve this?
_Wel._ A thousand waies, a thousand waies; sweet creature let me depart in
peace.
_Abig._ What Creature Sir? I hope I am a woman.
_Wel._ A hundred I think by your noise.
_Abig._ Since you are angrie Sir, I am bold to tell you that I am a woman,
and a rib.
_Wel._ Of a roasted horse.
_Abig._ Conster me that?
_Wel._ A Dog can doe it better; Farwell Countess, and commend me to your
Ladie, tell her she's proud, and scurvie, and so I commit you both to your
tempter.
_Abig._ Sweet Mr. _Welford_.
_Wel._ Avoid old Satanus: Go daub your ruines, your face looks fouler than
a storm: the Foot-man stayes for you in the Lobby Lady.
_Abig._ If you were a Gentleman, I should know it by your gentle
conditions: are these fit words to give a Gentlewoman?
_Wel._ As fit as they were made for ye: Sirrah, my horses. Farwell old
Adage, keep your nose warm, the Rheum will make it horn else--
[_Exit_ Welford.
_Abig.
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