King. Haile her away.
1 Cam. Come, Pusse! Haile her away? which way? yon way? my Camells backs cannot climbe it.
Anton. The fellow is struck mad.
1 Cam. That way? it lookes into a Mill-pond, Whirre! how the Wheels goe and the Divell grindes. No, this way.
King. Keepe the slave back!
1 Cam. Backe, keep me backe! there sits my wife kembing her haire, which curles like a witches felt-locks[171]! all the Neets in't are Spiders, and all the Dandruffe the sand of a Scriveners Sand-boxe. Stand away; my whore shall not be lousie; let me come noynt her with Stavesucre[172].
King. Defend me, lop his hands off!
Omnes. Hew him in pieces
King. What has he done?
Anton. Sir, beate out his owne braines.