John. Good Mother.
Lan. Good me no goods; your cousin, and your self
Are welcom to me, whilst you bear your selves
Like honest and true Gentlemen: Bring hither
To my house, that have ever been reputed
A Gentlewoman of a decent, and fair carriage,
And so behav'd my self—
John. I know ye have.
Lan. Bring hither, as I say, to make my name
Stink in my neighbours nostrils? your Devises,
Your Brats, got out of Alligant, and broken oaths?
Your Linsey Woolsy work, your hasty puddings?
I, foster up your filch'd iniquities?
Y'are deceiv'd in me, Sir, I am none
Of those receivers.
John. Have I not sworn unto you,
'Tis none of mine, and shew'd you how I found it?
Land. Ye found an easie fool that let you get it,
She had better have worn pasterns.
John. Will ye hear me?
Lan. Oaths? what do you care for oaths to gain your ends,
When ye are high and pamper'd? What Saint know ye?
Or what Religion, but your purpos'd lewdness,
Is to be look'd for of ye? nay, I will tell ye,
You will then swear like accus'd Cut-purses,
As far off truth too; and lye beyond all Faulconers:
I'me sick to see this dealing.
John. Heaven forbid Mother.
Lan. Nay, I am very sick.