Re-enter LITTLEWIT and his Wife.
Lit. Look, Win, do, look a God’s name, and save your longing. Here be fine sights.
Pure. Ay, child, so you hate them, as our brother Zeal does, you may look on them.
Leath. Or what do you say to a drum, sir?
Busy. It is the broken belly of the beast, and thy bellows there are his lungs, and these pipes are his throat, those feathers are of his tail, and thy rattles the gnashing of his teeth.
Trash. And what’s my gingerbread, I pray you?
Busy. The provender that pricks him up. Hence with thy basket of popery, thy nest of images, and whole legend of ginger-work.
Leath. Sir, if you be not quiet the quicklier, I’ll have you clapp’d fairly by the heels, for disturbing the Fair.
Busy. The sin of the Fair provokes me, I cannot be silent.
Pure. Good brother Zeal!