Mrs. Lit. Yes, do, John.
Cokes. A pretty little soul, this same mistress Littlewit, would I might marry her!
Grace. So would I; or any body else, so I might ’scape you. [Aside.
Cokes. Numps, I will see it, Numps, ’tis decreed: never be melancholy for the matter.
Waspe. Why, see it, sir, see it, do, see it: who hinders you? why do you not go see it? ’slid see it.
Cokes. The Fair, Numps, the Fair.
Waspe. Would the Fair, and all the drums and rattles in it, were in your belly for me! they are already in your brain. He that had the means to travel your head now, should meet finer sights than any are in the Fair, and make a finer voyage on’t; to see it all hung with cockle shells, pebbles, fine wheat straws, and here and there a chicken’s feather, and a cobweb.
Quar. Good faith, he looks, methinks, an you mark him, like one that were made to catch flies, with his sir Cranion-legs.
Winw. And his Numps, to flap them away.
Waspe. God be wi’ you, sir, there’s your bee in a box, and much good do’t you.