Chris. Yes, verily;
Not one hair's difference betwixt you both.
Rhyme. Thou violent cushion-thumper, hold thy tongue;
The Furies dwell in it!
Catch. Peace, good Sir Kit.
Chris. Sir Kit again! thou art a Lopez. When
One of thy legs rots off (which will be shortly),
Thou'lt bear about a quire of wicked paper,
Defiled with [un]sanctified rhymes
And idols in the frontispiece—that I
May speak to thy capacity, thou'lt be
A ballad-monger.
Catch. I shall live to see thee
Stand in a playhouse door with thy long box,
Thy half-crown library, and cry small books.
Buy a good godly sermon, gentlemen—
A judgment shown upon a knot of drunkards:
A pill to purge out popery: The life
And death of Katharine Stubbs.[198]
Chris. Thou wilt visit windows.
Methinks I hear thee with thy begging tone,
About the break of day, waking the brethren
Out of their morning-revelations.
And. Brave sport, i' faith!
Rhyme. Pray y', good sir, reconcile them.
If that same Justice be i' th' ordinary now,
He'll bind them to the peace for troubling him.
Bag. Why should he not, good sir? It is his office.
And. Now 'tis o' this side: O, for a pair of cudgels!