Mat. You’re the waspishest ape. Roger, put your mistress in mind to sup with us on Friday next. You’re best come like a madwoman, without a band, in your waistcoat, and the linings of your kirtle outward, like every common hackney that steals out at the back gate of her sweet knight’s lodging.
Bell. Go, go, hang yourself!
Cas. It’s dinner-time, Matheo; shall’s hence?
All. Yes, yes.—Farewell, wench.
Bell. Farewell, boys.—[Exeunt all except Bellafront and Roger.]—Roger, what wine sent they for?
Rog. Bastard wine,[167] for if it had been truly begotten, it would ha’ been ashamed to come in. Here’s six shillings to pay for nursing the bastard.
Bell. A company of rooks! O good sweet Roger, run to the poulter’s, and buy me some fine larks!
Rog. No woodcocks?[168]
Bell. Yes, faith, a couple, if they be not dear.
Rog. I’ll buy but one, there’s one already here. [Exit.