Gets on all his best clothes, and will after to the Swan.
Cokes. Most admirable good, is’t not?
Leath. Stay, sculler.
Pup. Cole. What say you?
Leath. You must stay for Leander,
And carry him to the wench.
Pup. Cole. You rogue, I am no pander.
Cokes. He says he is no pander. ’Tis a fine language: I understand it now.
Leath. Are you no pander, goodman Cole? here’s no man says you are;
You’ll grow a hot cole, it seems; pray you stay for your fare.