Mast. 'Tis a noble courtesie.
I had as lief ye should famish me, as founder me:
To be jaded to death, is only fit for a hackney.
Here be certain Tarts of Tarr about me,
And parcels of potargo in my Jerkin,
As long as these last.
Jul. Which will not last ever.
Tib. Then we'll eat one another like good fellows.
A shoulder of his for a haunch of mine.
Jul. 'Tis excellent.
Tib. 'Twill be as we'll dress it Ladies.
Cro. Why sure ye are not men?
Mast. Ye had best come search us,
A Seaman is seldom without a salt Eele.
Tib. I am bad enough,
And in my nature a notorious wencher;
And yet ye make me blush at your immodesty.
Tell me good Master, didst ever see such things?
Mast. I could like 'em, though they were lewdly given,
If they could say no; [but fie on 'em,
They gape like Oysters.]
Tib. Well, ye may hang, or starve us;
But your commanding impudence shall never fear us.
Had ye by blushing signs, soft cunings, crept into us,
And shew'd us your necessities: we had met your purposes,
Supply'd your wants. We are no Saints Ladies;
I love a good wench, as I love my life,
And with my life I will maintain my love:
But such a sordid impudence I'll spit at.
Let's to our dens again. Come noble Master.
You know our minds, Ladies:
This is the faith in which we'll die. [Exit Tib. and Mast.