Yet your wife told me you were an ox.
Grim. Did she so? ’tis a pestens quean,[125] she is full of such mocks.
But go to, let us sing out our song merrily.
The Song at the shaving of the Collier.
Jack. Such barbers God send you at all times of need.
Will. That can dress you [so] finely, and make such quick speed;
Jack. Your face like an inkhorn now shineth so gay—
Will. That I with your nostrils of force must needs play,
With too nidden and too nidden.
Jack. With too nidden and todle todle doo nidden.