Such cunning Masters must be fool'd sometimes, Sir,
And have their Worships noses wiped, 'tis healthful,
We are but quit: you fool us of our moneys
In every Cause, in every Quiddit wipe us.
Die.
Ha, ha, ha, ha, some more drink, for my heart, Gentlemen.
This merry Lawyer—ha, ha, ha, ha, this Scholar—
I think this fit will cure me: this Executor—
I shall laugh out my Lungs.
Bar.