Enter a Swaggerer, puffing.
Rash. An excellent humour, i' faith.
Long. Zounds! what have we here?
Spend. A land-porpoise, I think.
Rash. This is no angry, nor no roaring boy, but a blustering boy: now, Æolus defend us! what puffs are these?
Swag. I do smell a whore.
Drawer. O gentlemen, give him good words; he's one of the roaring boys.
Swag. Rogue!
Drawer. Here, sir.