Montr. Apples to make a lady beautiful?
Madam, that’s excellent.
Agrip. These Irishmen,
Some say, are great dissemblers, and I fear
These two the badge of their own country wear.
Andel. By my trat, and by Saint Patrick’s hand, and as Creez save me la, ’tis no dissembler: de Irishman now and den cut di countryman’s throat, but yet in fayt he love di countryman, ’tis no dissembler: dis feene Tamasco apple can make di sweet countenance, but I can take no less but three crowns for one, I wear out my naked legs and my foots, and my tods,[400] and run hidder and didder to Tamasco for dem.
Shad. As Creez save me la, he speaks true: Peeps feene.
Agrip. I’ll try what power lies in Damasco fruit.
Here are ten crowns for three. So fare you well.
Montr. Lord Longaville, buy some.
Longa. I buy? not I:
Hang them, they are toys; come, madam, let us go. [Exeunt Agripyne, Longaville and Montrose.
Both. Saint Patrick and Saint Peter, and all de holy angels look upon dat fash and make it fair.
Re-enter Montrose softly.
Shad. Ha, ha, ha! she’s sped, I warrant.