Pis. Where?
Fris. Heyday! heyday! a basket? It turns, ho!
Pis. Peace, ye villain, and let's see who's there?
Go, look about the house! Where are our weapons?
What might this mean?
Fris. Look, look, look! There's one in it; he peeps out.
Is there ne'er a stone here to hurl at his nose?
Pisa. What, wouldst thou break my windows with a stone?
How now, who's there I who are you, sir?
Fris. Look, he peeps out again! O, it's Monsieur Mendall, it's Monsieur Mendall. How got he up thither?
Pis. What, my son Vandal! how comes this to pass?
Alv. Signor Vandal, wat, do yo go to de wensh in dit little basket.
Van. O vader, vader! here be sush cruel dochterkins, ic ben all so weary, all so weary, all so cold, for be in dit little basket. Ic pray help de me.
Fris. He looks like the sign of the Mouth without Bishopsgate gaping: a great face and a great head, and no body.