Cri. Good morrow, brother! nay, you shall have my lip. Good morrow, servant!
Tyse. Good morrow, sweet life!
Cri. Life! dost call thy mistress life?
Tyse. Life! yes, why not life?
Cri. How many mistresses hast thou?
Tyse. Some nine.
Cri. Why then thou hast nine lives, like a cat.
Tyse. Mew, you would be taken up for that. 109
Cri. Nay, good, let me still sit; we low statures love still to sit, lest when we stand we may be supposed to sit.
Tyse. Dost not wear high cork shoes—chopines?[55]