Thom. As I am a Gentleman;
Out with this hair, Doll, handsomely.
Dor. You have your Breeches?
Thom. I prithee away, thou know'st I am monstrous ticklish,
What, dost thou think I love to blast my Buttocks?
Dor. I'll plague ye for this Roguery; for I know well
What ye intend, Sir.
Thom. On with my muffler.
Dor. Ye are a sweet Lady; come, let's see you courtesie;
What, broke i'th bum? hold up your head.
Thom. Plague on't,
I shall bepiss my Breeches if I cowr thus,
Come, I am ready.
Maid. At all points as like, Sir,
As if you were my Mistress.
Dor. Who goes with ye?
Thom. None but my fortune, and my self. [Exit Tho.