Lan. Good Master Thomas.
Ser. Did you not take two wenches from the watch too
And put 'em into pudding lane?
Lan. We mean not
Those civil things you did at M. Valentines,
The Fiddle, and the fa'las.
Tom. O strange impudence!
I do beseech you Sir give no such licence
To knaves and drunkards, to abuse your son thus:
Be wise in time, and turn 'em off: we live Sir
In a State govern'd civilly, and soberly,
Where each mans actions should confirm the Law,
Not crack, and cancel it.
Seb. Lancelot du Lake,
Get you upon adventures: cast your coat
And make your exit.
Lan. Pur lamour de dieu.
Seb. Pur me no purs: but pur at that door, out Sirrah,
I'le beat ye purblind else, out ye eight languages.
Lan. My bloud upon your head. [Exit Lan.
Tom. Purge me 'em all Sir.
Seb. And you too presently.