Fris. Why, my growte friend, Master Pisaro, doth dwell here.
Heigh. Sirrah, you lie; here dwells nobody but I, that have dwelt here this one and forty years, and sold glasses.
Wal. Lie farther: one and fifty at the least.
[Aside.
Fris. Hoo, hoo, hoo? Do you give the gentleman the lie?
Har. Ay, sir, and will give you a lick of my cudgel, if ye stay long and trouble the whole street with your bawling. Hence, dolt, and go seek Master Pisaro's house.
Fris. Go seek Master Pisaro's house! Where shall I go seek it?
Heigh. Why, you shall go seek it where it is.
Fris. That is here, in Crutched Friars?
Heigh. How, loggerhead, is Crutched Friars here? I thought you were some such drunken ass, that come to seek Crutched Friars in Tower Street. But get you along on your left hand, and be hanged! You have kept me out of my bed with your bangling a good while longer than I would have been.