[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter Rusee, de Bube, la Fiske, Norbret, Pippeau.
Rus. Come, bear up Sirs, we shall have better days,
My Almanack tells me.
Bub. What is that? your rump?
Rus. It never itch'd in vain yet, slide la Fiske,
Throw off thy sluggish face, I cannot abide
To see thee look like a poor Jade i'th' pound,
That saw no meat these three days.
Fiske. 'Slight, to me
It seems thirteen dayes since I saw any.
Rus. How?
Fis. I can't remember that I ever saw
Or meat or mony, you may talk of both
To open a mans stomach or his purse,
But feed 'em still with air.
Bub. Friar, I fear
You do not say your Office well a dayes.