Tuc. Why true, shall not I get in my debts, nay and the roague write no better I care not, farewell blacke Iacke farewell.
Cri. But Captaine heer’s a nettle.
Tuc. Sting me, doe.
Cri. Tucca’s exceeding tall and yet not hye,
He fights with skill, but does most vilye lye.
Tuc. Right, for heere I lye now, open, open, to make my aduersarie come on; and then Sir, heere am I in’s bosome: nay and this be the worst, I shal hug the poore honest face-maker, Ile loue the little Atheist, when he writes after my commendation, another whip? come yerke me.
Dem. Tucca will bite, how? growne Satiricall,
No, he bites tables, for he feedes on all.
Tuc. The whoreson clouen-foote deuill in mans apparell lyes,
There stood aboue forty dishes before me to day,
That I nere toucht, because they were empty.
Min. I am witnes young Gentlemen to that.
Tuc. Farewell stinckers, I smel thy meaning Screech-owle, I doe tho I stop my nose: and Sirra Poet, we’ll haue thee vntrust for this; come, mother Mum-pudding, come.