Blood. Let's ha't, let's ha't.
Ear. Mark, Moll.
Sim.
Young? say she be young, young mutton's sweet,
Content is above gold;
If, like an old cock, he with young mutton meet,
He feeds like a cuckold.
Blood. A very pretty pithy one, I protest; look, an' Moll do not laugh: shalt have a pair of gloves for that. What leather dost love?
Sim. Calf, sir; sheep's too simple for me.
Blood. Nay, 'tis a witty notable knave; he should never serve me else.
Enter John with a letter.
John. My mistress remembers her love, and requests you would inure her so much to your patience as to read that.
Blood. Love-letters, love-lies: dost mark, Sim; these women are violent, Sim. Whilst I read the lie,[49] do you rail to him upon the brewer: swear he has deceived us, and save a cup of beer by't.