Gooddy Dickison. Whoope, whurre, heres a sturre,
Never a cat, never a curre,
But that we must have this demurre.
Mal. A second course.
Mrs. Gen. Pull, and pull hard
For all that hath lately him prepar'd
For the great wedding feast.
Mall. As chiefe
Of Doughtyes Surloine of rost Beefe.
All. Ha, ha, ha.
Meg. 'Tis come, 'tis come.
Mawd. Where hath it all this while beene?
Meg. Some
Delay hath kept it, now 'tis here,
For bottles next of wine and beere,
The Merchants cellers they shall pay for't.
Mrs. Gener. Well,
What sod or rost meat more, pray tell.
Good. Dick. Pul for the Poultry, Foule, and Fish,
For emptie shall not be a dish.