Flam. Sir, have patience.
Brach. Indeed, I am to blame:
For did you ever hear the dusky raven
Chide blackness? or was 't ever known the devil
Rail'd against cloven creatures?
Vit. Oh, my lord!
Brach. Let me have some quails to supper.
Flam. Sir, you shall.
Brach. No, some fried dog-fish; your quails feed on poison.
That old dog-fox, that politician, Florence!
I 'll forswear hunting, and turn dog-killer.
Rare! I 'll be friends with him; for, mark you, sir, one dog
Still sets another a-barking. Peace, peace!
Yonder 's a fine slave come in now.
Flam. Where?
Brach. Why, there,
In a blue bonnet, and a pair of breeches
With a great cod-piece: ha, ha, ha!
Look you, his cod-piece is stuck full of pins,
With pearls o' th' head of them. Do you not know him?
Flam. No, my lord.
Brach. Why, 'tis the devil.
I know him by a great rose he wears on 's shoe,
To hide his cloven foot. I 'll dispute with him;
He 's a rare linguist.