Char. That we know.
Rut. To any honest well-deserving fellow,
And 'twere but to a merry Cobbler, I could sit still now,
I love the game so well; but that this puckfist,
This universal rutter—fare ye well Sir;
And if you have any good prayers, put 'em forward,
There may be yet a remedie.
Char. I wish it, [Exit Rut. And all my best devotions offer to it.
Enter Clodio, and Guard.
Clod. Now is this tye dispatch'd?
Char. I think it be Sir.
Clod. And my bed ready?
Char. There you may quickly find Sir, Such a loath'd preparation.
Clod. Never grumble,
Nor fling a discontent upon my pleasure,
It must and shall be done: give me some wine,
And fill it till it leap upon my lips: [wine
Here's to the foolish maidenhead you wot of,
The toy I must take pains for.
Char. I beseech your Lordship Load not a Fathers love.