Amb. Pox o’ your gleeke, And three pence. Giue me an anſwere.
Pvg. Sir, My maſter is the beſt at it.
Amb. Your maſter! Who is your Maſter.
Pvg. Let it be friday night.
Amb. What ſhould be then?
Pvg. Your beſt ſongs Thom. o’ Bet’lem 35
Amb. I thinke, you are he. Do’s he mocke me trow, from purpoſe? Or do not I ſpeake to him, what I meane? Good Sir your name.
Pvg. Only a couple a’ Cocks Sir, If we can get a Widgin, ’tis in ſeaſon.
Amb. He hopes to make on o’ theſe Scipticks o’ me 40 For Scepticks. (I thinke I name ’hem right) and do’s not fly me. I wonder at that! ’tis a ſtrange confidence! I’ll prooue another way, to draw his anſwer.