Bos. Oh sir, relish but your licour, as you doe your song, you may goe drunke to bed any day in the weeke.
Phy. Sister,[262] awake, close not, &c. Does my face hold colour still?
Bos. I, and you would but scaviage the pavilion of your nose.
Gra. I, marrie, Accutus, how lik'st thou this Gentlewoman Gallant?
Accut. A good states-man, for common-wealth of Brownists; the Rogue hates a Church like the Counter.
Gra. I, and if my Ladie Argentile were dead, he wold rather live upon almes then fall to worke.
Accut. So he might have tolleration.—What, shal's close with them?
Gra. In any case, but in some mild imbrace, for if we should continue thus rough, we should be shunned like an Appoplex.
Accut. Gallants, the fortune of the day runs with ye: what all at mumchance?[263] how is't? how is't?
Phy. Sir, I think twas you bestowed some abuse of me tother day.