Cun. What? No Sir?
Sir Greg. I had not thought my body could a yielded
All those foul scurvie names that she has call'd me,
I wonder whence she fetcht 'em?
Cun. Is this credible?
Sir Greg. She pin'd this Scarf upon me afore her Unckle,
But his back turn'd, she curst me so for wearing on't,
The very brawn of mine arme has ak'd ever since,
Yet in a manner forc't me to wear't still,
But hop't I should not long; if good luck serve
I should meet one that has more wit and worth
Should take it from me, 'twas but lent to me,
And sent to him for a token.
Cun. I conceit it, I know the Man
That lies in wait for't, part with't by all means,
In any case, you are way-laid about it.
Sir Greg. How Sir? way-laid?
Cun. Pox of a Scarf, say I,
I prize my friends life 'bove a million on 'em,
You shall be rul'd, Sir, I know more than you.
Sir Greg. If you know more than I, let me be rid on't,
'Lass, 'tis not for my wearing, so she told me.
Cun. No, no, give me't, the knave shall miss his purpose,
And you shall live.
Sir Greg. I would, as long as I could, Sir.