Cost. Are you sure there is no conjuration in it? no gunpowder plot upon me?
Kite. No, no, friend; don't fear, man.
Cost. My mind misgives me plaguily.—Let me see it—[Going to put it on.] It smells woundily of sweat and brimstone. Smell, Tummas.
Tho. Ay, wauns does it.
Cost. Pray, Serjeant, what writing is this upon the face of it?
Kite. The crown, or the bed of honour.
Cost. Pray now, what may be that same bed of honour?
Kite. Oh! a mighty large bed! bigger by half than the great bed at Ware—ten thousand people may lie in it together, and never feel one another.
Cost. My wife and I would do well to lie in't, for we don't care for feeling one another——But do folk sleep sound in this same bed of honour?
Kite. Sound! ay, so sound that they never wake.