Alp. 'Tis pity this pretty thing should want understanding.
But why do I stand talking with a coxcombe?
If I do find her, if I light upon her,
I'le say no more. Is this the way to th' Town, fool?
Alin. You must go over the top of that high steeple, Gaffer.
Alp. A plague o' your fools face.
Jul. No, take her counsel.
Alin. And then you shall come to a River twenty mile over,
And twenty mile and ten: and then you must pray, Gaffer;
And still you must pray, and pray.
Alp. Pray Heaven deliver me
From such an ass, as thou art.
Alin. Amen, sweet Gaffer.
And fling a sop of Suger-cake into it;
And then you must leap in naked.
Jul. Would he would believe her.
Alin. And sink seven daies together; can ye sink gaffer?
Alp. Yes coxcomb, yes; prethee farewel: a pox on thee.
A plague o' that fool too, that set me upon thee.