Bal. Shall make the Fox a Night-cap.
Cor. So the Goose talkes French to the Buzzard.
Bal. But, Sir, if evill dayes justle our prognostication to the wall, then say there's a fire in the whore-masters Cod-peece.
Cor. And a poyson'd Bagge-pudding in Tom Thumbes belly.
Bal. The first cut be thine: farewell!
Cor. Is this all?
Bal. Woo't not trust an Almanacke?
Cor. Nor a Coranta[210] neither, tho it were seal'd with Butter; and yet I know where they both lye passing well.
Enter Lopez.
Lop. The King sends round about the Court to seek you.