Fus. Why, sister, do you think I’ll forswear my hand?
Vio. Well, well, you shall have them: put yourself into better fashion, because I must employ you in a serious matter.
Fus. I’ll sweat like a horse if I like the matter.
Vio. You ha’ cast off all your old swaggering humours?
Fus. I had not sailed a league in that great fishpond, the sea, but I cast up my very gall.
Vio. I am the more sorry, for I must employ a true swaggerer.
Fus. Nay by this iron, sister, they shall find I am powder and touch-box, if they put fire once into me.
Vio. Then lend me your ears.
Fus. Mine ears are yours, dear sister.