Fris. Even where you will, signor, for I know not. Soft, I smell: O pure nose!
Del. What do you smell?
Fris. I have the scent of London stone as full in my nose, as Abchurch Lane of mother Wall's pasties. Sirs, feel about: I smell London stone.
Alv. What be dis?
Fris. Soft, let me see; feel, I should say, for I cannot see. O lads, pray for my life, for we are almost at Crutched Friars.
Del. Dat's good: but what be dis post?
Fris. This post? why, 'tis the Maypole on Ivy Bridge going to Westminster.
Del. Ho[w,] Westminster! how come we to Westminster?
Fris. Why, on your legs, fools: how should you go? Soft, here's another; O, now I know indeed where I am. We are now at the farthest end of Shoreditch; for this is the Maypole.
Del. Shoreditch? O Dio! dere be some naughty ting, some spirit do lead us.