Bal. A thing to be taken in a glister-pipe?
Cor. Why, what ayles my Lady?
Bal. What ayles she? why, when she cryes out Solus Rex me facit miseram, she sayes in the Hypocronicall language that she is so miserably tormented with the wind-Chollicke that it rackes her very soule.
Cor. I said somewhat cut her soule in pieces.
Bal. But goe to her and say the oven is heating.
Cor. And what shall be bak'd in't?
Bal. Carpe pies, and besides tell her the hole in her Coat shall be mended; and tell her if the Dyall of good dayes goe true, why then bounce Buckrum.
Cor. The Divell lyes sicke of the Mulligrubs.
Bal. Or the Cony is dub'd, and three sheepskins—
Cor. With the wrong side outward.