Alex. Good Sir, speak some French to my Mistriss.
Mer. At your intreaty Alexander, I will, who shall I speak to?
Alex. If your worship will do me the favour Sir, to me.
Mer. Mounseir, Poultron, Coukew, Cullione, Besay, Man cur.
Alex. Awe Mounseir.
Moth. Ha, ha, ha, this fine indeed, gods [blessing 'on] thy heart Son, by my troth thou art grown a proper Gentleman, cullen and pullen, good god what [saucey] words they use beyond the seas, ha, ha, ha!
Alex. Did not [you sweare] right.
Mer. Yes good Alexander, if you had done so too,
But good Mother, I am very hungry, and have rid far to day, and am fasting.
Moth. You shall have your supper presently, my sweet Son.
Mer. As soon as you please, which once ended,
I'll go and [visit yo[n] sick Gentlewoman.
Moth. Come then. [Exeunt.
Enter Antonio like a Post, with a Letter.