1. Hunt. Why, what's the matter?
Bump. Nay, I know not; but every day my great Guts, and my small Guts make such a Combustion in my belly, as passes, and my Puddings, (like Lances) run a-tilt at my heart, and make me queasie-stomacht.
1. Hunt. Canst thou not guess the reason of this trouble?
Bump. Yes, I think I can, and I'le be judged by thee, if my case be not desperate. I have a horrible mind to be in love.
1. Hunt. With whom?
Bump. With any body; but I cannot find out the way how to be in Love.
1. Hunt. Why? I'le instruct thee: Cans't thou be melancholly?
Bump. Yes, as a Dog, or a Hog-louse; I could even find it in my heert to cry presently.
1. Hunt. Canst thou sleep well?
Bump. I cannot tell, I never saw myself sleep.