Short. O that fool, he lies in loose sheets every where, that's no where.
Luce. You have glean'd since you came to London: in the Country, Shorthose, you were an arrant fool, a dull cold coxcombe, here every Tavern teaches you, the pint pot has so belaboured you with wit, your brave acquaintance that gives you Ale, so fortified your mazard, that now there's no talking to you.
Isab. 'Is much improved, a fellow, a fine discourser.
Short. I hope so, I have not waited at the tail of wit so long to be an Ass.
Luce. But say now, Shorthose, my Lady should remove into the Country.
Short. I had as lieve she should remove to Heaven, and as soon I would undertake to follow her.
Luce. Where no old Charnico is, nor no Anchoves, nor Master such-a-one, to meet at the Rose, and bring my Lady, such-a-ones chief Chamber-maid.
Isab. No bouncing healths to this brave Lad, dear Shorthose, nor down o'th' knees to that illustrious Lady.
Luce. No fiddles, nor no lusty noise of drawer, carry this pottle to my Father Shorthose.
Isab. No plays, nor gaily foists, no strange Embassadors to run and wonder at, till thou beest oyl, and then come home again, and lye byth' Legend.