Fit. Buz, buz, buz, buz.
Tay. Laſſe poore Gentleman! How he is tortur’d!
Mrs. Fi. Fie, Maſter Fitz-dottrel! What doe you meane to counterfait thus?
Fit. O, ô, His wife goes to him. Shee comes with a needle, and thruſts it in, Shee pulls out that, and ſhee puts in a pinne, 50 And now, and now, I doe not know how, nor where, But ſhee pricks mee heere, and ſhee pricks me there: ôh, ôh:
Pov. Woman forbeare.
Wit. What, Sr?
Pov. A practice foule For one ſo faire:
Wit. Hath this, then, credit with you?
Man. Do you beleeue in’t?
Pov. Gentlemen, I’ll diſcharge My conſcience. ’Tis a cleare conſpiracy! 56 A darke, and diuelliſh practice! I deteſt it!