Ant. Yes, my lord.
Hip. I’ll borrow leave
To read you o’er, and then we’ll talk: till then
Drink up this gold; good wits should love good wine;
This of your loves, the earnest that of mine.— [Gives money.
Re-enter Bryan.
How now, sir, where’s your lady? not gone yet?
Bry. I fart di lady is run away from dee, a mighty deal of ground, she sent me back for dine own sweet face, I pray dee come, my lord, away, wu’t tow go now?
Hip. Is the coach gone? Saddle my horse, the sorrel.
Bry. A pox a’ de horse’s nose, he is a lousy rascally fellow, when I came to gird his belly, his scurvy guts rumbled; di horse farted in my face, and dow knowest, an Irishman cannot abide a fart. But I have saddled de hobby-horse, di fine hobby is ready, I pray dee my good sweet lord, wi’t tow go now, and I will run to de devil before dee?
Hip. Well, sir,—I pray let’s see you, master scholar.
Bry. Come, I pray dee, wu’t come, sweet face? Go. [Exeunt.