Flu. Morrow, coz.
Cas. How does my sweet acquaintance?
Pio. Save thee, little marmoset: how dost thou, good, pretty rogue?
Bell. Well, God-a-mercy, good, pretty rascal.
Flu. Roger, some light, I prithee.
Rog. You shall, signor, for we that live here in this vale of misery are as dark as hell. [Exit for a candle.
Cas. Good tobacco, Fluello?
Flu. Smell.
Pio. It may be tickling gear: for it plays with my nose already. [Re-enter Roger with candle.
Rog. Here’s another light angel,[150] signor.