Mar. Who is your Master?
Ant. I pray do you look.
Mar. Do you know this fellow?
Ser. No Maddam, not I; more than an Irish Footman, stand further friend, I do not like your roperunners, What stallion Rogues are these, to weare such dowsetts, the very Cotton may commit adultery.
Mar. I cannot find whose hand this should be, I'll read, To the beauteous wife of Don Antonio, sure this is some blind scribe—well now, What follows?
Ant. Pray God it take, I have given her that, will stir her conscience, how it works with her; hope, if it be thy will, let the flesh have it.
Mar. This is the most abhor'd, intollerable knavery, that ever slave entertain'd, sure there is more than thine own head in this villany, it goes like practic'd mischiefe; disabled in his body? O good God, as I live he lies fearfully, and basely, ha? I should know that Jewel, 'tis my husband, come hither shat, Are you an Irish Man?
Ant. Sweete Woman a Cree I am an Irish man.
Mar. Now I know it perfectly; is this your trick, Sir? I'll trick you for it; How long have you serv'd this Gentleman.
Ant. Please thee a little day, O my Mac dermond put me to my Mastree, 'tis don I know.