Cas. O hell! Thou foolish thing,
Keep in that tongue of thine; or——
Slicer. Good now, peace:
He's very furious when he's mov'd.
Hear. This 'twas.
You must be venturing without your fancy-man.
Cre. What officer's that fancy-man, lieutenant?
Some great commander, sure.
Cas. Pox! let it go;
I'll win't again: 'twas but the relics of
An idle hundred.
Cre. 'Snigs, and well-remember'd.
You did receive the hundred that I sent you
To th' race this morning by your man, my bailiff?
Cas. Take him away, his wine speaks in him now.
Cre. Godsnigs! the farm is mine, and must be so.
Slicer. Debate these things another time, good friends.
Enter Have-at-all.