Rog. No nor one drop of good drink boyes, there's the devil.
Short. I heartily pray the malt be musty, and then we must come up again.
Hum. What sayes the Steward?
Rog. He's at's wits end, for some four hours since, out of his haste and providence, he mistook the Millars mangie mare, for his own nagge.
Short. And she may break his neck, and save the journy. Oh London how I love thee!
Hum. I have no boots nor none I'le buy: or if I had, refuse me if I would venture my ability, before a Cloak-Bag, men are men.
Short. For my part, if I be brought, as I know it will be aimed at, to carry any durty dairy Cream-pot, or any gentle Lady of the Laundry, Chambring, or wantonness behind my Gelding, with all her Streamers, Knapsacks, Glasses, Gugawes, as if I were a running flippery, I'le give 'em leave to cut my girts, and slay me. I'le not be troubled with their Distibations, at every half miles end, I understand my self, and am resolved.
Hum. To morrow night at Olivers! who shall be there boys, who shall meet the wenches?
Rog. The well brew'd stand of Ale, we should have met at!
Short. These griefs like to another Tale of Troy, would mollifie the hearts of barbarous people, and Tom Butcher weep, Aeneas enters, and now the town's lost.