Kite. Why, 'tis like a modern minc'd pie, but the crust is confounded hard, and the plums are somewhat hard of digestion.
Bul. Then your palisado, pray what may he be? Come, Rouse, pray ha' done.
Kite. Your palisado is a pretty sort of bodkin, about the thickness of my leg.
Bul. That's a fib, I believe. [Aside.] Eh! where's Rouse? Rouse, Rouse! 'Sflesh! where's Rouse gone?
Kite. She's gone with the captain.
Bul. The captain! wauns! there's no pressing of women, sure.
Kite. But there is, sure.
Bul. If the captain should press Rouse, I should be ruined——Which way went she? Oh! the devil take your rabelins and palisadoes!
[Exit.
Kite. You shall be better acquainted with them, honest Bullock, or I shall miss of my aim.