Sir Vau. Trudge then, pay your legs for Fees, and bee dissarg’d.
Tuc. Tprooth——runne Red-cap, ware hornes there.
Exit Asi.
Sir Va. Now Master Horace, you must be a more horrible swearer, for ’your oath must be (like your wittes) of many collours; and like a Brokers booke of many parcels.
Tuc. Read, read; th’inuentory of his oath.
Hor. Ile sweare till my haire stands vp an end, to bee rid of this sting, oh this sting!
Sir Vau. Tis not your sting of conscience, is it?
Tuc. Vpon him: Inprimis.
Sir Vaugh. Inprimis, you shall sweare by Phœbus and the halfe a score Muses lacking one: not to sweare to hang your selfe, if you thought any Man, Ooman or Silde, could write Playes and Rimes, as well-fauour’d ones as your selfe.
Tuc. Well sayd, hast brought him toth gallowes already?