Wench. Yes, I see him, and by my troth he stands so fair I could not
Hold were he my Father, his hat's off too, and he's scratching
His head.
Fab. O, wash that hand I prithee.
Wench. 'Send thee good luck, this the second time I have thrown thee
Out to day, ha, ha, ha, just on's head.
Fran. Alas!
Fab. What does he now?
Wench. He gathers stones, God's light, he breaks all the Street windows.
Jac. Whores, Bawds, your windows, your windows.
Wench. Now he is breaking all the low windows with His Sword,
Excellent sport, now he's beating a fellow that laugh'd at him,
Truly the man takes it patiently; now he goes down the street
Gravely, looking on each side, there's not one more dare laugh.
Fran. Does he go on?
Wench. Yes.