LUCY. Yes; I know both master and man to be—
SETTER. To be men, perhaps; nay, faith, like enough: I often march in the rear of my master, and enter the breaches which he has made.
LUCY. Ay, the breach of faith, which he has begun: thou traitor to thy lawful princess.
SETTER. Why, how now! prithee who art? Lay by that worldly face and produce your natural vizor.
LUCY. No, sirrah, I’ll keep it on to abuse thee and leave thee without hopes of revenge.
SETTER. Oh! I begin to smoke ye: thou art some forsaken Abigail we have dallied with heretofore—and art come to tickle thy imagination with remembrance of iniquity past.
LUCY. No thou pitiful flatterer of thy master’s imperfections; thou maukin made up of the shreds and parings of his superfluous fopperies.
SETTER. Thou art thy mistress’s foul self, composed of her sullied iniquities and clothing.
LUCY. Hang thee, beggar’s cur, thy master is but a mumper in love, lies canting at the gate; but never dares presume to enter the house.
SETTER. Thou art the wicket to thy mistress’s gate, to be opened for all comers. In fine thou art the highroad to thy mistress.