Sir Lionel. Now, widow, you are welcome to my house,
And to your own house too, so you may call it;
For what is mine is yours: you may command here
As at home, and be as soon obey'd.
Wid. May I deserve this kindness of you, sir?
Bub. Save you, gentlemen. I salute you after the Italian fashion.
W. Rash. How! the Italian fashion? Zounds! he has dressed him rarely.
Sir Lionel. My son Bubble, I take it?
W. Rash. The nether part of him I think is he;
But what the upper part is, I know not.
[Ger.] By my troth, he's a rare fellow.
Bub. He said true;
They are all in an ecstasy.
[Aside.]
Gert. I think he's mad.
[Aside.]
Joyce. Nay, that cannot be; for they say, they that are mad lose their wits, and I am sure he had none to lose.
[Aside.]