Tim. To the Devil, father?
Sim. My master means the sign of the Devil;[30] and he cannot hurt you, fool; there's a saint holds him by the nose.
Tim. Sniggers! what does the devil and a saint both in a sign?
Sim. What a question's that? what does my master and his prayer-book o' Sunday both in a pew?
Blood.[31] Well, well, ye gipsy, what do we both in a pew?
Sim. Why, make a fair show; and the devil and the saint does no more.
Blood. You're witty, you're witty. Call to the man o' th' house, bid him send in the bottles of wine to-night; they will be at hand i' th' morning. Will you run, sir?
Tim. To the devil, as fast as I can, sir; the world shall know whose son I am. [Exit.
Blood. Let me see now for a poesy for the ring: never an end of an old saw? 'Tis a quick widow, Sim, and would have a witty poesy.
Sim. If she be quick, she's with child; whosoever got it, you must father it; so that