Tuc. As blunt as the top of Poules; tis not like thy Aloe, Cicatrine tongue, bitter: no, tis no stabber, but like thy goodly and glorious nose, blunt, blunt, blunt: dost roare bulchin? dost roare? th’ ast a good rounciuall voice to cry Lanthorne & Candlelight.
Sir Va. Two vrds Horace about your eares: how chance it passes, that you bid God boygh to an honest trade of building Symneys, and laying downe Brickes, for a worse handicraftnes, to make nothing but railes; your Muse leanes vpon nothing but filthy rotten railes, such as stand on Poules head, how chance?
Hor. Sir Vaughan.
Sir Va. You lye sir varlet sir villaine, I am sir Salamanders, ounds, is my man Master Peter Salamanders face as vrse as mine? Sentlemen, all and Ladies, and you say once or twice Amen, I will lap this little Silde, this Booby in his blankets agen.
Omnes. Agree’d, agree’d.
Tuc. A blanket, these crackt Venice glasses shall fill him out, they shall tosse him, holde fast wag-tailes: so, come, in, take this bandy with the racket of patience, why when? dost stampe mad Tamberlaine, dost stampe? thou thinkst th’ast Morter vnder thy feete, dost?
Ladies. Come, a bandy ho.
Hor. O holde most sacred beauties.