Eld. Yes, my love.
Ors. A little mulled sack, if the night be wet.
Eld. Indeed, my dear! And a hot posset for your cold, curdled with sweet wine.
Ors. Humph! A little tart, I beg you, to give it spice.
Eld. Well, our tastes won't quarrel. I know a wife's place.
Ors. By my life, you do! O, 'tis a merry day! Would I were not a man of dignity now! [Pats her]
Eld. Orson!
Ors. I mean—O, come! 'Tis a merry day! Give us a song, mister soldier!
Ste. I'll give you the devil!