Jac. Yes a little more sweet wit,
One tast more o' your office: go thy wayes
With thy small kettle Drums; upon my conscience
Thou art the best, that e're man laid his leg o'er.
Clor. He smells just like a Cellar,
Fye upon him.
Jac. Sweet Lady now to you.
Clor. For loves sake kiss him.
Fred. I shall not keep my countenance.
Fra. Trye pre'thee.
Jac. Pray be not coy sweet woman, for I'le kiss ye,
I am blunt
But you must pardon me.
Clor. O God, my sides.
All. Ha, ha, ha, ha.
Jac. Why ha, ha, ha? why laugh?
Why all this noise sweet Ladyes?