Lan. I confess the Wine
Will do his part.
John. I'le pledge ye.
Lan. But son John.
Joh. I know your meaning mother; touch it once more,
Alas you look not well; take a round draught,
It warms the bloud well, and restores the colour,
And then we'll talk at large.
Lan. A civil Gentleman?
A stranger? one the Town holds a good regard of?
John. Nay I will silence thee.
Lan. One that should weigh his fair name? oh, a stitch!
Joh. There's nothing better for a stitch, good Mother,
Make no spare of it, as you love your health,
Mince not the matter.
Land. As I said, a Gentleman,
Lodge in my house? now heav'ns my comfort, Signior!
John. I look'd for this.