_Elder Lo_. From whom good vanity?
_Abig_. 'Tis from my Lady Sir: Alas good soul, she cries and takes on!
_Elder Lo_. Do's she so good Soul? wou'd she not have a Cawdle? do's she
send you with your fine Oratory goody _Tully_ to tye me to believe again?
bring out the Cat-hounds, I'le make you take a tree Whore, then with my
tiller bring down your _Gibship_, and then have you cast, and hung up
i'th' Warren.
_Abig_. I am no beast Sir, would you knew it.
_Elder Lo_. Wou'd I did, for I am yet very doubtful; what will you say
now?
_Abig_. Nothing not I.
_Elder Lo_. Art thou a woman, and say nothing?
_Abig_. Unless you'l hear me with more moderation, I can speak wise
enough.
_Elder Lo_. And loud enough? will your Lady love me?
_Abig_. It seems so by her letter, and her lamentations; but you are such
another man.
_Elder Lo_. Not such another as I was, Mumps; nor will not be: I'le read
her fine Epistle: ha, ha, ha, is not thy Mistress mad?
_Abig_. For you she will be, 'tis a shame you should use a poor
Gentlewoman so untowardly; she loves the ground you tread on; and you
(hard heart) because she jested with you, mean to kill her; 'tis a fine
conquest as they say.
_Elder Lo_. Hast thou so much moisture in the Whitleather hide yet, that
thou canst cry? I wou'd have sworn thou hadst been touchwood five year
since; nay let it rain, thy face chops for a shower like a dry Dunghil.
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