Cob. In a gadly way you may; it is lawful.
Lam. Come, come, we’re dull, give us some Musick—come, my Lord, I’ll give you a Song, I love Musick as I do a Drum, there’s Life and Soul in’t, call my Musick.
Fleet. Yea, I am for any Musick, except an Organ.
War. Sbread, Sirs, and [I’s for a Horn-pipe], I’ve a faud Theefe here shall dance ye Dance tol a Horn-pipe, with any States-man a ya aud.
All. He, he, he.
Duc. I know not what your faud Theefe can do; but I’ll hold you a Wager, Colonel Hewson, and Colonel Desbro shall dance ye the Seint’s Jigg with any Sinner of your Kirk, or field Conventicler.
War. Wons, and I’s catch ’em at that Sport, I’s dance tol ’em for a [Scotch Poond]; but farst [yar Song], my Lord, I hope ’tis boody, or else ’tis not werth a Feart.
All. He, he, he.
SONG, sung by my Lord Lambert.
A Pox of the States-man that’s witty,