Tyse. Why, so: now, every dog has his bone to gnaw on.
Free. The masque holds, Master Caqueteur.
Caq. I am ready, sir. Mistress, I’ll dance with you, ne’er fear—I’ll grace you. 211
Put. I tell you, I can my singles and my doubles, and my trick o’ twenty[60]—my carantapace—my traverse forward—and my falling back, yet, i’faith.
Bea. Mine! The provision for the night is ours. Much must be our care; till night we leave you; I am your servant, be not tyrannous. Your virtue won me; faith, my love’s not lust; Good, wrong me not; my most fault is much trust.
Free. Until night only, my heart be with you. Farewell, sister. 221
Cri. Adieu, brother. Come on, sister, for these sweetmeats.
Free. Let’s meet and practise presently.
Tyse. Content; we’ll but fit our pumps. Come, ye pernicious vermin.
[Exeunt all but Freevill.