Mar. By my faith he speaks as well as if he had been lousy for the language a year or two; well, Sir, you had been better have kept your own shape as I will use you, What have I done that should deserve this tryal? I never made him Cuckold, to my knowledge, Sirrah come hither.
Ant. Now will she send some Jewel, or some Letter, I know her mind as well; I shall be famous.
Mar. Take this Irish bawde here.
Ant. How?
Mar. And kick him till his breeches and breech be of one colour, a bright blew both.
Ant. I may be well swing'd thus, for I dare not reveale my self, I hope she does not mean it, O hone, O hone, O St. Patricke, O a Cree, O sweet Woman.
Mar. No, turn him, and kick him o't'other side, that's well.
Ant. O good waiting Man, I beseech thee good waiting man, a pox fyre your Legs.
Mar. You Rogue, you enemy to all, but little breeches,
How dar'st thou come to me with such a Letter?
Ant. Prethee pitty the poor Irishman, all this makes for me, if I win her yet, I am still more glorious.