Tick. Why, how now, Barberacho, what monstrous Faces are you making there?
Pet. All, my Belly, my Belly, Signior: ah, this Wind-Cholick! this Hypocondriack does so torment me! ah—
Tick. Alas, poor Knave; certo, I thought thou hadst been somewhat uncivil with me, I profess I did.
Pet. Who, I, Sir, uncivil?—I abuse my Patrone!—I that have almost made my self a Pimp to serve you?
Tick. Teze, teze, honest Barberacho! no, no, no, all’s well, all’s well:—but hark ye—you will be discreet and secret in this business now, and above all things conceal the knowledge of this Gentlewoman from Sir Signal and Mr. Galliard.
Pet. The Rack, Signior, the Rack shall not extort it.
Tick. Hold thy Hand—there’s somewhat for thee, [Gives him Money.] but shall I, Rogue—shall I see her to night?—
Pet. To night, Sir, meet me in the Piazza D’Hispagnia, about ten a Clock,—I’ll meet you there,—but ‘tis fit, Signior—that I should provide a Collation,—’tis the custom here, Sir.—
Tick. Well, well, what will it come to?—here’s an Angel.—
Pet. Why, Sir, ‘twill come to—about—for you wou’d do’t handsomely— some twenty Crowns.—