And with sporting and playing quickly[36] shaken off:
In which kind of toying thy master hath such a grace,
That he will never blush, he hath a wooden face.
But, Will, my master hath bees in his head,
If he find me here prating, I am but dead:
He is still trotting in the city, there is somewhat in the wind;
His looks bewray his inward troubled mind:
Therefore I will be packing to the court by and by;
If he be once angry, Jack shall cry, woe the pie!
Will. By’r Lady, if I tarry long here, of the same sauce shall I taste,