Bell. Punk? you soused gurnet!
Mat. King’s truce: come, I’ll bestow the supper to have him but laugh.
Cas. He betrays his youth too grossly to that tyrant melancholy.
Mat. All this is for a woman.
Bell. A woman? some whore! what sweet jewel is’t?
Pio. Would she heard you!
Flu. Troth, so would I.
Cas. And I, by Heaven.
Bell. Nay, good servant, what woman?
Mat. Pah!