Mat. It is my humour, sir, ’tis a foolish bag-pipe that I make myself merry with: why should I eat hemp-seed at the hangman’s thirteen-pence halfpenny[312] ordinary, and have this whore laugh at me, as I swing, as I totter?
Duke. Is she a whore?
Mat. A six-penny mutton pasty, for any to cut up.
Orl. Ah, toad, toad, toad.
Mat. A barber’s cittern[313] for every serving-man to play upon; that lord, your son, knows it.
Hip. I, sir? Am I her bawd then?
Mat. No, sir, but she’s your whore then.
Orl. Yea, spider; dost catch at great flies? [Aside.
Hip. My whore?
Mat. I cannot talk, sir, and tell of your rems and your rees and your whirligigs and devices: but, my lord, I found ’em like sparrows in one nest, billing together, and bulling of me. I took ’em in bed, was ready to kill him, was up to stab her—