Lop. I'll add another dish: you shall have Milk to it,
'Tis nourishing and good.
Lop. This knave would breed a famine in a Kingdom:
And cloths that shall content ye: you must be wise then,
And live sequestred to your self and me,
Not wandring after every toy comes cross ye,
Nor struck with every spleen: what's the knave doing? Penurio.
Pen. Hunting Sir, for a second course of Flies here,
They are rare new Sallads.
Lop. For certain Isabella
This ravening fellow has a Wolf in's [belly]:
Untemperate knave, will nothing quench thy appetite?
I saw him eat two Apples, which is monstrous.
Pen. If you had given me those 't had been more monstrous.
Lop. 'Tis a main miracle to feed this villain,
Come Isabella, let us in to supper,
And think the Roman dainties at our Table,
'Tis all but thought. [Exeunt.
Pen. Would all my thoughts would do it:
The Devil should think of purchasing that Egg-shell,
To victual out a Witch for the Burmoothes:
'Tis Treason to any good stomach living now
To hear a tedious Grace said, and no meat to't,
I have a Radish yet, but that's but transitory. [Exit.
Scæna Tertia.
Enter Soto.