Spa.
O good Sir forgive me.
Lyg.
Forgive you, why? I am no kin to you, am I?
Spa.
Should it be measur'd by my mean deserts, indeed you are not.
Lyg.
Thou couldest prate unhappily ere thou couldst go, would thou couldst do as well, and how does your custome hold out here?
Spa.
Sir?