Host. Fine footing,
Light and deliver: now my boys: Master Fryer,
How does your Holiness, bear up man; what
A cup of neat Sack now and a toast: ha, Fryer,
A warm plaister to your belly Father,
There were a blessing now.
Fryer. Ye say your mind Sir.
Host. Where my fine Boy: my poynter.
Bayl. There's the wonder.
Host. A rank whore scratch their sides till the pox follow
For robbing thee, thou hast a thousand ways
To rob thy self boy, Dice, and a Chamber-Devil.
Leo. Ye are deceiv'd Sir.
Host. And thy Master too boy.
Phil. A sweet-fac'd boy indeed: what rogues were these?
What barbarous, brutish slaves to strip this beauty?
Theo. Come hither my boy: alas! he's cold, mine Host,
We must intreat your Cloak.
Host. Can ye intreat it.