Dor. Ha, what has the mad man done?
Mary. Worse, worse, and worse still.
Alice. Some Northern Toy, a little broad.
Mary. Still fouler!
Hey, hey Boys, goodness keep me; Oh.
Dor. What ail ye?
Mary. Here, take your Spell again, it burns my fingers.
Was ever Lover writ so sweet a Letter?
So elegant a style? pray look upon't;
The rarest inventory of rank Oaths
That ever Cut-purse cast.
Alice. What a mad Boy is this!
Mary. Only i'th' bottom
A little Julip gently sprinkled over
To cool his mouth, lest it break out in blisters,
Indeed law. Yours for ever.
Dor. I am sorry.
Mar. You shall be welcome to me, come when you please,
And ever may command me vertuously,
But for your Brother, you must pardon me,
Till I am of his nature, no access friend,
No word of visitation, as ye love me,
And so for now I'le leave ye. [Exit.