Alv. Why do'st thou hang upon me?
Luc. 'Tis so dark
I dare not see my way: for heaven sake father
Let us go home.
Bob. No, ev'n here we'll leave you:
Let's run away from him, my Lord.
Alv. Thou hast made me mad: and I will beat thee dead,
Then bray thee in a morter, and new mold thee,
But I will alter thee.
Bob. 'Twil never be:
He has been three days practising to drink,
Yet still he sips like to a waiting woman,
And looks as he were murdering of a fart
Among wild Irish swaggerers.
Luc. I have still
Your good word, Zancho, father.
Alv. Milk-sop, coward;
No house of mine receives thee: I disclaim thee,
Thy mother on her knees shall not entreat me
Hereafter to acknowledge thee.
Luc. Pray you speak for me.
Bo. I would; but now I cannot with mine honor.