Wel. The Butler? certainly he had all his drink about him when he did it. Strike one of your grave Cassock? The offence Sir?
Rog. Reproving him at Tra-trip Sir, for swearing; you have the total surely.
Wel. You told him when his rage was set a tilt, and so he crackt your Canons. I hope he has not hurt your gentle reading: But shall we see these Gentlewomen to night.
Rog. Have patience Sir until our fellow Nicholas be deceast, that is, asleep: for so the word is taken: to sleep to dye, to dye to sleep, a very figure Sir.
Wel. Cannot you cast another for the Gentlewomen?
Rog. Not till the man be in his bed, his grave: his grave, his bed: the very same again Sir. Our Comick Poet gives the reason sweetly; Plenus rimarum est, he is full of loope-holes, and will discover to our Patroness.
Wel. Your comment Sir has made me understand you.
Enter Martha the Ladies Sister, and Younglove, to them with a Posset.
Rog. Sir be addrest, the graces do salute you with the full bowl of plenty. Is our old enemy entomb'd?
Abig. He's safe.