Clow. Oh 'tis a spiteful pain.
Lap. Peace, never speak on't,
For putting men in mind on't.
Clow. To conclude,
I'm bursten Sir: my belly will hold no meat.
Lap. No? that makes amends for all.
Clow. Unless 't be puddings,
Or such fast food, any loose thing beguiles me, I'm ne'er the better for't.
Lap. Sheeps-heads will stay with thee?
Clo. Yes Sir, or Chaldrons.
Lap. Very well sir:
Your bursten fellows must take heed of surfets:
Strange things it seems, you have endur'd;
Clo. Too true Sir.
Lap. But now the question is, what you will endure
Hereafter in my service?