Cl[a]. Very well.
Bob. Did ever Spanish Lady pace so?
Cla. Hold these a little.
Luc. I'll not touch 'em, I.
Cla. First doe I break your Office o're your pate,
You Dog-skin-fac'd rogue, pilcher, you poor John,
Which I will beat to Stock-fish.
Luc. Sister.
Bob. Madam.
Cla. You Cittern-head, who have you talk'd to, ha? You nasty, stinking, and ill-countenanc'd Cur.
Bob. By this hand, I'll bang your brother for this, when I get him alone.
Cla. How? kick him Lucio, he shall kick you Bob,
Spight o' the nose, that's flat: kick him, I say,
Or I will cut thy head off.