Mi. Bar. Such as almost doth choake thy mother, boy,
And stifles her with the conceit of it;
I am abusde, my sonne, by Gourseys wife.
Phil. By mistresse Goursey?
Mi. Bar. Mistresse flurt, yon[1691] foule strumpet, 230
Light a love, short heeles! Mistresse Goursey
Call her againe, and thou wert better no.
Phil. O my deare mother,[1692] have some patience!
Mis. Bar. I, sir, have patience, and see your father
To rifle up the treasure of my love, 235