Hol. Yes, sir, an apprentice to surgery.
Coc.[34] ’Tis, my fine boy. To what bawdy-house doth your master belong? What’s thy name?
Hol. Holifernes Reinscure.
Coc. Reinscure! Good Master Holifernes, I desire your further acquaintance; nay, pray ye be covered, my fine boy: kill thy itch, and heal thy scabs. Is thy master rotten? 181
Hol. My father, forsooth, is dead——
Coc. And laid in his grave.
Alas! what comfort shall Peggy then have![35]
Hol. None but me, sir; that’s my mother’s son, I assure you.
Coc. Mother’s son? A good witty boy, would live to read an homily well: and to whom are you going now?
Hol. Marry, forsooth, to trim Master Mulligrub the vintner. 190
Coc. Do you know Master Mulligrub?