THE UNCLE
Foul fiend, I will let you of that.
Here in my breviary there stand
Eight or ten lines writ in a fair nand
Which will make you grin all otherwise.
MOONEN
Ah! ah! my fell of bristles doth rise
At the words he readeth; I know nor what to do nor how.
By Modicack, if she should scape me now
I shall be whipped with burning lash!