Tuc. No more, Ile shoote away yonder Prickshaft, and then belabour her, and flye you after yonder Cucko: dost heere me my noble Gold-finch?——
Sir qui. No more.
Tuc. How dost thou my smug Belimperia? how dost thou? hands off my little bald Derricke, hands off: harke hether Susanna, beware a these two wicked Elders, shall I speake well or ill of thee?
Min. Nay, eene as you please Captaine, it shal be at your choise.
Tuc. Why well said, my nimble Short-hose.
Sir quin. I heare her, I heare her.
Tuc. Art angry father time? art angrie because I tooke mother-Winter aside? Ile holde my life thou art strucke with Cupids Birde-bolt, my little prickshaft, art? dost loue that mother Mumble-crust, dost thou? dost long for that whim-wham?
Sir Ada. Wod I were as sure to lye with her, as to loue her.
Tuc. Haue I found thee my learned Dunce, haue I found thee? If I might ha my wil, thou shouldst not put thy spoone into that bumble-broth (for indeede Ide taste her my selfe) no thou shouldst not; yet if her beautie blinde thee, she’s thine, I can doo’t, thou heardst her say eene now, it should bee at my choice.