Bar. A votre commandment, madame.
Bell. How sweet, my Ithamore, the flowers smell.
Itha. Like thy breath, sweetheart, no violet like 'em.40
Pilia. Foh! methinks they stink like a hollyhock.
Bar. So, now I am revenged upon 'em all. The scent thereof was death; I poisoned it. [Aside.
Itha. Play, fiddler, or I'll cut your cat's guts into chitterlings.
Bar. Pardonnez moi, be no in tune yet; so now, now all be in.
Itha. Give him a crown, and fill me out more wine.
Pilia. There's two crowns for thee, play.
Bar. How liberally the villain gives me mine own gold. [Aside.51