Fab. No, Sir, out of judgment,
For he that deals with thee, thou'rt grown so boysterous,
Must have more wits, or more lives than another,
Or always be in Armour, or inchanted,
Or he is miserable.
Jac. Your end of this, Sir?
Fab. My end is only mirth to laugh at thee,
Which now I'll do in safety; ha, ha, ha.
Jac. 'S heart! then I am grown ridiculous.
Fab. Thou art,
And wilt be shortly sport for little Children,
If thou continuest this rude stubborness.
Jac. O God, for any thing that had an edge!
Fab. Ha, ha, ha.
Jac. Fye, what a shame it is,
To have a Lubber shew his teeth!
Fab. Ha, ha.
Jac. Why dost thou laugh at me, thou wretched fellow?
Speak with a Pox; and look ye render me
Just such a reason—