Gam. No body out o' Friday-street, nor the two Fish-streets there, do you hear?
Car. Shall John Butter o' Milk-street come in? Ask him.
Gam. Yes, he may slip in for a torch-bearer, so he melt not too fast, that he will last till the masque be done.
Chris. Right, son.
Our dance's freight is a matter of eight;
And two, the which are wenches:
In all they be ten, four cocks to a hen,
And will swim to the tune like tenches.
Each hath his knight for to carry his light,
Which some would say are torches
To bring them here, and to lead them there,
And home again to their own porches.
Enter Venus, a deaf tire-woman.
Ven. Now, all the lords bless me! where am I, trow? where is Cupid? "Serve the king!" they may serve the cobbler well enough, some of 'em, for any courtesy they have, I wisse; they have need o' mending: unrude people they are, your courtiers; here was thrust upon thrust indeed: was it ever so hard to get in before, trow?
Chris. How now? what's the matter?