John. I cannot peace; Devils in French hoods, Frederick?
Satans old Syringes?
Duke. What's this?
Vec. Peace.
John. She, Boy.
Fred. What dost thou mean?
John. She, Boy, I say.
Fred. Ha?
John. She Boy,
The very Child too, Frederick.
Fred. She laughs on us
Aloud, John, has the Devil these affections?
I do believe 'tis she, indeed.
Vec. Stand still.