Over. Whose complexion is like the Indian’s that vents it.
Cokes. Are they not brave words, sister?
Over. And who can tell, if before the gathering and making up thereof, the Alligarta hath not piss’d thereon?
Waspe. ’Heart! let ’em be brave words, as brave as they will! an they were all the brave words in a country, how then? Will you away yet, have you enough on him? Mistress Grace, come you away; I pray you, be not you accessary. If you do lose your license, or somewhat else, sir, with listening to his fables, say Numps is a witch, with all my heart, do, say so.
Cokes. Avoid in your satin doublet, Numps.
Over. The creeping venom of which subtle serpent, as some late writers affirm, neither the cutting of the perilous plant, nor the drying of it, nor the lighting or burning, can any way persway or assuage.
Cokes. Good, i’faith! is it not, sister?
Over. Hence it is that the lungs of the tobacconist are rotted, the liver spotted, the brain smoked like the backside of the pig-woman’s booth here, and the whole body within, black as her pan you saw e’en now, without.
Cokes. A fine similitude that, sir! did you see the pan?
Edg. Yes, sir.