Char. Is there no whypps for knaves are impudent? Thys sawcynes will make your skynne [to] smarte.
Fue. Away, away! Y'are an ould man & should be wyse. I tell you I was not in love with you tyll you doated on me; to drawe me into a fooles paradysse[104] & there leave me is not an honest man's parte nor a good chrystyans.
Char. What kynde of madnes call you thys? for shame! Shall I be torturd with hym?
Tur. Tys but a rude grosse weaknes, which anon Ile shoe at full unto your majestie.
Fue. Come, sweete Charles, I knowe thou lovest me, & love will creepe where it cannot goe. Come, letts condole together.
Char. Yes, if I like your example. Goe presentlye And give him fortye lashes: make hym bleede Soundlye, away with hym!
Fue. Howe, howe, how! fortye lashes! so I shall bleede to deathe. Call you that soundlye? Foote! I am sicke with thought on't.
Char. Away with hym! And if a prate, see that you dooble them: Away!
Fue. Well I will never trust the wooeinge of a great man whylst I live agayne: & they be as false to weomen as to men they have sweete eeles to hould by.
Char. Yet has a leave to prate?