Regan feeds on coltsfoot, and kicks like a horse.
See, she twists her mutton fists like Molyneux or Beelzebub,
And t'other's clack, who pats her back, is louder far than Hell's hubbub.
They tweak my nose, and round it goes, I fear they'll break the ridge of it.
Or leave it all just like Vauxhall, with only half the bridge of it.
Omnes. Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,
Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!
Lady Macbeth. I kill'd the King, my husband is a heavy dunce,
He left the grooms unmassacred, then massacred the stud,
One loves long gloves, for mittens, like King's evidence,