Bell. I’m accursed to let such a withered artichoke-faced rascal grow under my nose: now you look like an old he-cat, going to the gallows: I’ll be hanged if he ha’ not put up the money to cony-catch[159] us all.
Rog. No, truly, forsooth, ’tis not put up yet.
Bell. How many gentlemen hast thou served thus?
Rog. None but five hundred, besides prentices and serving-men.
Bell. Dost think I’ll pocket it up at thy hands?
Rog. Yes, forsooth, I fear you will pocket it up.
Bell. Fie, fie, cut my lace, good servant; I shall ha’ the mother[160] presently, I’m so vext at this horse-plumb.
Flu. Plague, not for a scald[161] pottle of wine!
Mat. Nay, sweet Bellafront, for a little pig’s wash!
Cas. Here Roger, fetch more. [Gives money.] A mischance, i’faith, acquaintance.