Hen. You hound, is he up?
Buz. No, he's in Bed, and yet he may be up too; Ile goe see.
Hen. Stay, and speake low.—How now?
[Buz. falls downe.
Buz. I can speake no lower unlesse I creepe into the Cellar.
Hen. I'me glad you are so merry, sir.
Buz. So am I; my heart is a fiddle; the strings are rozend with ioy that my other young Mr. is come home, & my tongue the sticke that makes the fiddle squeake.
Hen. Come hither, leave your fooling & tell me truely: didst sleepe to night or no?
Buz. Sleepe? Not that I remember: Ile sweare (& my eyes should come out as 2 witnesses) that I nere slept worse; for what with ycur Spanish flyes (the pocky, stinging musquitoes) & what with your skip Jacke fleas, the nap of my sleepe was worne off.
Hen. Didst heare nothing?