Flu. And the knight, Sir Oliver Lollio, swore he would bestow a taffeta petticoat on thee, but to break his fast with thee.
Bell. With me? I’ll choke him then, hang him, mole-catcher! it’s the dreamingest snotty-nose.
Pio. Well, many took that Lollio for a fool, but he’s a subtle fool.
Bell. Ay, and he has fellows: of all filthy, dry-fisted knights, I cannot abide that he should touch me.
Cas. Why, wench? is he scabbed?
Bell. Hang him, he’ll not live to be so honest, nor to the credit to have scabs about him; his betters have ’em: but I hate to wear out any of his coarse knight-hood, because he’s made like an alderman’s night-gown, faced all with cony[157] before, and within nothing but fox: this sweet Oliver will eat mutton till he be ready to burst, but the lean-jawed slave will not pay for the scraping of his trencher.
Pio. Plague him; set him beneath the salt, and let him not touch a bit, till every one has had his full cut.
Flu. Lord Ello, the gentleman-usher, came into us too; marry ’twas in our cheese, for he had been to borrow money for his lord, of a citizen.
Cas. What an ass is that lord, to borrow money of a citizen!