_Lady_. By this light hee'll beat us.
_Elder Lo_. You do deserve it richly,
And may live to have a Beadle doe it.
_Lady_. Now he rails.
_Elder Lo_. Come scornfull Folly,
If this be railing, you shall hear me rail.
_Lady_. Pray put it in good words then.
_Elder Lo_. The worst are good enough for such a trifle,
Such a proud piece of Cobweblawn.
_Lady_. You bite Sir?
_Elder Lo_. I would till the bones crackt, and I had my will.
_Mar_. We had best muzzel him, he grows mad.
_Elder Lo_. I would 'twere lawfull in the next great sickness to have the
Dogs spared, those harmless creatures, and knock i'th' head these hot
continual plagues, women, that are more infectious. I hope the State will
think on't.
_Lady_. Are you well Sir?
_Mar_. He looks as though he had a grievous fit o'th' Colick.
_Elder Lo_. Green-ginger will cure me.
_Abig_. I'le heat a trencher for him.
_Elder Lo_. Durty _December_ doe, Thou with a face as old as _Erra Pater_,
such a Prognosticating nose: thou thing that ten years since has left to
be a woman, outworn the expectation of a Baud; and thy dry bones can reach
at nothing now, but gords or ninepins, pray goe fetch a trencher goe.
_Lady_. Let him alone, he's crack't.
_Abig_.
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