Tim. What, the widow Wag?
Sim. Yes, yes; she that dwells in Blackfriars, next to the sign of the Fool laughing at a feather.[3]
Mis. Mary. She, she; good brother, make yourself handsome, for my father will bring her hither presently.
Tim. Niggers-noggers, I thought he had been sick, and had not been up, Sim.
Sim. Why, so did I too; but it seems the widow took him at a better hand, and raised him so much the sooner.
Tim. While I tie my band, prythee stroke up my foretop a little: niggers, an' I had but dreamed of this an hour before I waked, I would have put on my Sunday clothes. 'Snails, my shoes are pale as the cheek of a stewed pander; a clout, a clout, Sim.
Sim. More haste the worse speed; here's ne'er a clout now.
Tim. What's that lies by the hooks?
Sim. This? 'tis a sumner's coat.[4]
Tim. Prythee, lend's a sleeve of that; he had a noble on't last night, and never paid me my bill-money.