Ant. No, by my trot, and fait, can'st thou not Man.
Ser. Well, Sir, I'll call her to you, pray shake your ears without a little. [Exit Servingman.
Ant. Cran a Cree do it quickly; this rebbel tonge sticks in my teeth worse than a tough Hen, sure it was ne'er known at Babel, for they sould no Apples, and this was made for certain at the first planting of Orchards,'tis so crabbed.
Enter Wife, and Servingman.
Mar. What's he wood speak with me?
Ser. A kill kenny ring, there he stands Madam.
Mar. What would you have with me, friend?
Ant. He has a Letter for other Women, Wilt thou read it.
Mar. From whence?
Ant. De Crosse creest from my Master.