Coo. And yet we may be hang'd too.
But. Or say he take it, say we be discover'd?
[Yeo.] Is not the same man bound still to protect us?
Are we not his?
But. Sure, he will never fail us.
Coo. If he do, friends, we shall find that will hold us.
And yet me thinks, this prologue to our purpose,
These crowns should promise more: 'tis easily done,
As easie as a man would roast an egge,
If that be all; for look you, Gentlemen,
Here stand my broths, my finger slips a little,
Down drops a dose, I stir him with my ladle,
And there's a dish for a Duke: Olla Podrida.
Here stands a bak'd meat, he wants a little seasoning,
A foolish mistake; my Spice-box, Gentlemen,
And put in some of this, the matter's ended;
Dredge you a dish of plovers, there's the Art on't.
Yeo. Or as I fill my wine.
Coo. 'Tis very true, Sir,
Blessing it with your hand, thus quick and neatly first, 'tis past
And done once, 'tis as easie
For him to thank us for it, and reward us.
Pan. But 'tis a damn'd sin.
Coo. O, never fear that.
The fire's my play-fellow, and now I am resolv'd, boyes.
But. Why then, have with you.