Old K. Then come you forth more unexpectedly
The Mask it self, a thousand a year joynture,
The cloud, your frien[d] will be then drawn away,
And only you the beauty of the Play.
Sir Gr. For Red and Black, I'll put down all your Fullers,
Let but your Neece bring White, and we have three colours. [Exit Sir Greg.
Old K. I'm given to understand you are a Wit, Sir.
Cuning. I'm one that Fortune shews small favour to, Sir.
Old K. Why there you conclude it, whether you will or no, Sir;
To tell you truth, I'm taken with a Wit.
Cun. Fowlers catch Woodcocks so, let not them know so much.
Old K. A pestilence mazard, a Duke Humphrey spark
Had rather lose his dinner than his jest,
I say I love a Wit the best of all things.
Cun. Always except your self.
Old K. Has giv'n't me twice now.
Enter Neece and Guardianess.