Dor. Say ye?
Car. He would know if these be not your bridemen.
Dor. Vuh! yes, sir: and look ye, do you see? the bride-laces that I give at my wedding, will serve to tie rosemary to both your coffins when you come from hanging—Scab!
Orl. Fie, punk, fie, fie, fie!
Dor. Out, you stale, stinking head of garlic, foh, at my heels.
Orl. My head’s cloven.
Hip. O, let the gentlewoman alone, she’s going to shrift.
Ast. Nay, to do penance.
Car. Ay, ay, go, punk, go to the cross and be whipt.
Dor. Marry mew, marry muff,[318] marry, hang you, goodman dog: whipt? do ye take me for a base spittle-whore? In troth, gentlemen, you wear the clothes of gentlemen, but you carry not the minds of gentlemen, to abuse a gentlewoman of my fashion.