Enter William Small-Shanks.
Oliver. Whom have we here? what, my mad-headed son;
What makes he here so late? Say I am gone;
And I the whilst will step behind the hangings.
W. Small. God bless thee, parcel of man's flesh.
Taf. How, sir?
W. Small. Why, parcel of man's flesh! art not a woman?
But, widow, where's the old stinkard my father?
They say, widow, you dance altogether
After his pipe.
Taf. What then?
W. Small. Th' art a fool,
I'll assure thee there's no music in it.
Taf. Can you play better?
W. Small. Better, widow?
Blood, dost think I have not learnt my prick-song?
What, not the court prick-song? One up and another down:
Why, I have't to a hair; by this light,
I hope thou lovest him not.
Taf. I'll marry him, sir.