Coc. Hang toasts, you are an ass; much o’ your worship’s brain lies in your calves; bread o’ god, boy, I was at supper last night with a new-wean’d bulchin; bread o’ god, drunk, horribly drunk—horribly drunk! there was a wench, one Frank Frailty, a punk, an honest polecat, of a clean instep, sound leg, smooth thigh, and the nimble devil in her buttock. Ah, feast o’ grace! when saw you, Tysefew, or Master Caqueteur, that prattling gallant of a good draught, common customs, fortunate impudence, and sound fart? 163
Free. Away, rogue!
Coc. Hang toasts, my fine boy, my companion as worshipful.
Mal. Yes, I hear you are taken up with scholars and churchmen.
Coc. Quanquam[32] te, Marce, fili, my fine boy.
Hol. Does[33] your worship want a barber-surgeon? 170
Free. Farewell, knave; beware the Mulligrubs.
[Exeunt Freevill and Malhereux.
Coc. Let the Mulligrubs beware the knave. What, a barber-surgeon, my delicate boy?