Tickle. Ay, marry will you; you'll to play again and lose your money, and fall to fighting; my very heart trembles to think on it; how, if you had been killed in the quarrel? of my faith, I had been but a dead woman.
Spend. Come, come, no more of this; thou dost but dissemble.
Tickle. Dissemble! do not you say so; for if you do,
God is my judge, I'll give myself a gash.
Spend. Away, away; prythee, no more. Farewell.
Tickle. Nay, buss first; well,
There's no adversity in the world shall part us.
Spend. Thou art a loving rascal; farewell.
Sweat. You will not fail supper?
Spend. You have my word; farewell.
[Exit.
The street. Enter Serjeants.