Enter old Sebastian, and Launcelot.
Seb. Sirrah, no more of your French shrugs I advise you.
If you be lowzie shift your self.
Laun. May it please your Worship.
Seb. Only to see my Son, my Son, good Launcelot;
Your Master and my Son; Body O me Sir,
No money, no more money, Monsieur Launcelot,
Not a Denier, sweet Signior; bring the Person,
The person of my Boy, my Boy Tom, Monsieur Thomas,
Or get you gone again, du gata whee, Sir;
Bassa mi cu, good Launcelot, valetote.
My Boy or nothing.
Laun. Then to answer punctually.
Seb. I say to th' purpose.
Laun. Then I say to th' purpose,
Because your Worships vulgar Understanding
May meet me at the nearest; your Son, my Master,
Or Monsieur Thomas, (for so his Travel stiles him)
Through many foreign plots that Vertue meets with,
And dangers (I beseech ye give attention)
Is at the last arriv'd
To ask your (as the French man calls it sweetly)
Benediction de jour en jour.
Seb. Sirrah, do not conjure me with your French furies.
Laun. Che ditt' a vou, Monsieur.
Seb. Che doga vou, Rascal;
Leave me your rotten language, and tell me plainly,
And quickly, Sirrah, lest I crack your French Crown,
What your good Master means; I have maintain'd
You and your Monsieur, as I take it, Launcelot,
These two years at your ditty vous, your jours.
Jour me no more, for not another penny
Shall pass my purse.