Ear. Snails, she may sing me asleep o' nights then, Sim.
Sim. Why, right, sir; and then 'tis but tickling you o' th' forehead with her heels, you are awake again, and ne'er the worse man.
Moll. Is he but five years older than yourself, sir?
Ear. Nay, I want a week and three days of that too.
Blood. I'll tell thee an old saw for't, girl—
Old say he be, old blades are best,
Young hearts are never old.
Ear. Ha, ha!
Blood.
Gold is great glee, gold begets rest,
What fault is found in gold?
Sim. I will answer presently, sir, with another saw.