Ver. What's your Will, Sir?
Lis. You must accept, and read it.
Ter. The Tailor will run mad upon my life for't.
Ped. How he mumps and bridles: he will ne'r cut clothes again.
Ver. And what's your grief?
Mon. He speaks i' th' nose like his goose.
Fra. I pray you read there; I am abus'd and frumpt, Sir,
By a great man that may do ill by authority;
Poor honest men are hang'd for doing less, Sir,
My child is stolen, the Count Otrante stole her;
A pretty child she is, although I say it,
A handsome Mother, he means to make a whore of her,
A silken whore, his knaves have filch'd her from me;
He keeps lewd knaves, that do him beastly offices:
I kneel for Justice. Shall I have it Sir?
Enter King Philippo, and Lords.
Phil. What Pageant's this?
Lis. The King:
Tailor, stand off, here ends your aparition:
Miller, turn round, and there address your paper,
There, there's the King indeed.