Sea. 'Sdeath, my son's name! Tim do you call him?
Sale. He'll answer to no name but that.
Quart. And, Tim, what think you of a wench now?
Tim. O, I am sick; where is she? O——
Sea. I'll lay my life, this fish is some confederate rogue.
Quart. I drink to you, Timothy, in sack.
Tim. O, O!
Quart. A health, Tim.
Sale. What, not pledge your mistress!