Rod. What a Devil art thou?
Alin. No end of my misfortunes, Heaven?
Rod. What antick?
Speak Puppet, speak.
Alind. That habit to betray me?
Ye holy Saints, can ye see this?
Rod. It danceth;
The Devil in a Fools Coat, is he turn'd Innocent?
What mops and mows it makes! heigh! how it frisketh!
Is't not a Fairy, or some small Hobgoblin?
It has a mortal face, and I have a great mind to it,
But if it should prove the Devil then.
Alin. Come hither.
Rod. I think 'twill ravish me,
It is a handsome thing, but horribly Sun-burnt,
What's that it points at?
Alin. Dost thou see that star there,
That just above the Sun?
Prithee go thither, and light me this Tobacco,
And stop it with the horns o'th' Moon.
Rod. The thing's mad,
Abominably mad, her brains are butter'd,
Go sleep, fool, sleep.
Alin. Thou canst not sleep so sweetly;
For so I can say my Prayers, and then slumber.