Cun. No blabbing, as you love me.
Sir Greg. None of our blood
Were ever bablers.
Cun. Prethee convey this Letter to her,
But at any hand let not your Mistriss see't.
Sir Greg. Yet agen Sir?
Cun. There's a Jewel in't,
The very art would make her doat upon't.
Sir Greg. Say you so?
And she shall see't for that trick only.
Cun. Remember but your Mistriss, and all's well.
Sir Greg. Nay, if I do not, hang me. [Exit.
Cun. I believe you;
This is the onely way to return a token,
I know he will do't now, 'cause he's charg'd to'th' contrary.
He's the nearest kin to a Woman, of a thing
Made without substance, that a man can find agen,
Some Petticoat begot him, I'll be whipt else,
Engendring with an old pair of paund hose,
Lying in some hot chamber o'er the Kitchin:
Very steame bred him,
He never came where Rem in Re e'er grew;
The generation of a hundred such
Cannot make a man stand in a white sheet,
For 'tis no act in Law, nor can a Constable
Pick out a bawdy business for Bridewell in't;
Enter Clown (as a Gallant.)