C. Count. What, I say, herke a worde.
Fan. Do away, I say, the deuylles torde!
C. Count. Ye, but how longe shall I here awayte?
Fan. By Goddys body, I come streyte:
I hate this blunderyng that thou doste make.
C. Count. Nowe to the deuyll I thé betake,
For in fayth ye be well met.
Fansy hath cachyd in a flye net
This noble man Magnyfycence,
Of Largesse vnder the pretence. 410