Cla. Methinks she should not love thy Master?
Pen. Hang him Pilcher,
There's nothing loves him: his own Cat cannot endure him,
She had better lye with a Bear, for he is so hairy,
That a tame Warren of Fleas frisk round about him.
Cla. And wilt thou work still?
Pen. Like a Miner for ye.
Cla. And get access.
Pen. Or conjure you together,
'Tis her desire to meet: she is poyson'd with him,
And till she take a sweet fresh air, that's you Sir.
Cla. There's money for thee: thou art a precious Varlet
Be fat, be fat, and blow thy Master backward.
Pen. Blow you my Mistriss, Sir, as flat as a Flounder,
Then blow her up again, as Butchers blow their Veals;
If she dye upon the same
Bury her, bury her in Gods name.
Cla. Thou art a merry knave: by this hand I'll feed thee,
Till thou crack'st at both ends, if thou dar'st do this
Thou shall eat no fantastical Porridge,
Nor lick the dish where oil was yesterday,
Dust, and dead Flies to day; Capons, fat Capons—
Pen. Oh hearty sound.