Waspe. Good master Hornet, turd in your teeth, hold you your tongue: do not I know you? your father was a ’pothecary, and sold clysters, more than he gave, I wusse: and turd in your little wife’s teeth too—here she comes—
Re-enter Mrs. LITTLEWIT, with the box.
’twill make her spit, as fine as she is, for all her velvet custard on her head, sir.
Lit. O, be civil, master Numps.
Waspe. Why, say I have a humour not to be civil; how then? who shall compel me, you?
Lit. Here is the box now.
Waspe. Why, a pox o’ your box, once again! let your little wife stale in it, an she will. Sir, I would have you to understand, and these gentlemen too, if they please—
Winw. With all our hearts, sir.
Waspe. That I have a charge, gentlemen.
Lit. They do apprehend, sir.